


Serve Your Turn

by dovahfiin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Auror Harry Potter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good Severus Snape, Injury Recovery, M/M, Multi, Muteness, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-04-14 05:46:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14129382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahfiin/pseuds/dovahfiin
Summary: Severus Snape has lived, despite the injuries dealt him by Nagini. In the two years that have passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, he has learned to live with those scars, finding solace in silence.When one of the surviving Death Eaters leaves a disturbing calling card, Snape is ripped from the illusion that he will ever be able to escape his past. Forced to seek help from the wizarding world, Snape's savior is the last person he would expect - and the last person he wants.Update: I am editing this, because I think it went off the rails a bit. Brb.





	1. Cat Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape pays the price for complacency.

  
How decay begets charm, Snape cannot fathom; but in the Cotswolds, where the cobbles shine with a fresh rain and rows of homes older than he is line the winding, narrow streets, 'charm' is always the first word that comes to him. Some of them are unadorned save for masonry in multiple shades of ivory and tan, and still others boast twisted boughs of ivy curling over doors, reaching up to shuttered windows, wrapping around chimneys. The picture is complete with the aroma of distant burn piles, leaves and pine that give off a tantalizing, earthy haze as the smoke lazily drifts upward; there's something else too, flirting with the edge of his olfactory sense. Espresso from the small coffee shop he had just left, the paper cup warming his hand in the crisp Fall afternoon. Rain has fallen softly and insistently all day, throughout the class he taught at the cookery shop, only letting up once to allow him to peruse the vegetable selection at the open-air market in the center of town. His selections are carefully arranged in his reusable sack, lightly misted with moisture and also giving off a symphony of smells to foreshadow their toothsome flavor when he prepares them later in the evening. Petrichor rounds out the fecund, wild scents intermingling with the civility of coffee and freshly baked bread. It's a dichotomy in which he has built a home, and he wraps it around himself like a blanket. Rustic, yet civilized; unassuming and cultured at once.

  


  
He often feels like an impostor, and he supposes he ought to. Not a muggle and certainly wary of being discovered, he only rarely brews Dreamless Sleep when he is in dire need and muggle sleep medication will not do. When he does brew, he only does so at night; he learned in his first year in the Cotswolds that his neighbors are persistently well-meaning. He'd cut his hair, the black greasiness replaced with pomade and a styled, yet still messy, short variant. The black robes gone, he has traded his wizard's attire for dark jeans, a long-sleeved thermal henley, and a dark gray wool jacket with a collar he can flip to hide or at least minimize the appearance of the scars on his neck. And anyway, he wears a handmade wool tartan scarf - the dark McGonagall hunting tartan, which he admittedly wears in part as a sentimental token - and when people do see his injuries, they never inquire. He never offers an explanation, but the corner of his mouth might turn up in a thoughtful half-smile, and the subject is dropped.

  


  
There is little physical pain anymore when he does try to speak, although his speech therapist says that he may recover a good portion of his ability to phonate, it will never fully return. His can manage short sentences, but mostly he prefers to use the pad and pen he carries with him everywhere, sometimes getting lucky with the few townspeople who had taken it upon themselves to learn sign language.

  


  
It was here that he was re-acquainted with the goodness of people once again, although he kept them at arms length - trust was not included in his newfound faith, but only because he could not afford it. There had been whispers that Death Eaters were living among muggles, decentralized with the death of Voldemort but no less motivated to take up the mantle of his cause when and if the time arose. Hiding in plain sight though he might have been, Snape was unaffected by the possibility that some zealous, bloodthirsty Death Eater could come find him in what would very much be a vain attempt to kill him. There is no point in dwelling in a purgatory of what ifs. As it stood, Snape bore a daily reminder of what happens when redemption's call reaches willing ears too late. His heart, scarred in a more metaphysical fashion, still ached with the loss of Dumbledore; a crime for which he was never tried, though he would likely be held to account if he ever returned to the wizarding world.

  


  
Severus Snape carries around scar tissue and ghosts, stuffed into the pockets of his Levis and nestled in the threadbare corners of his conscience, just like the frayed edges on the cuffs of his henley. Indeed, the only thing for which he atones daily is the way Albus' eyes twinkled like caramelized sugar, their crystalline knowledge surpassing anything Snape thought he knew about Tom Marvolo Riddle, subtly reminding him of the look Lily Potter wore as her lifeless body had hung limply from his arms -

  


  
It would be a Dreamless Sleep sort of evening, he decided, clutching the canvas bag a little tighter and walking a little faster down the wet, shining cobbles as his flat came into view. It was on the end of the street, perhaps the most simplistic home in this part of the Cotswolds, but it had an understated charm that didn't draw much attention - certainly no ivy vines framing the window, just a well-maintained starkness that didn't give off the impression that anyone of import lived there.

  


  
Walking up to the front door, a peculiar dread washed over him. Something wasn't quite right; he sets the bag of vegetables down on the stone stoop, one hand poised with the key over the lock while the other reached inside his jacket for the wand he had safely stowed within. Turning the lock slowly, he holds his wand at the ready and takes a tentative step inside the house.

  


  
His easel on which a large pad of paper still sits by the fireplace, bookshelves lining the simple space with a spun rug laid out in front of a drab gray couch and an old, second-hand recliner, its brown leather aged and scuffed to protest its past use. He glances up the stairs briefly; cuts his gaze to the floor, then back up to the black-and-white portrait of a wintery scene hanging in its proper place in the hallway leading to the kitchen.

  


  
Normally Artemis, his black tuxedo cat, would have already bound out from whatever hiding spot he had found during the day to purr and skitter in figure-of-eight patterns around his legs. When he didn't meet Snape in the foyer as was his custom, it didn't strike the former Death Eater as odd. Artemis was also found of the outdoors, often regarded as the neighborhood cat and wandering from flat to flat for saucers of milk that were left out expressly for the cat's nomadic tendencies. He was likely on one such constitutional now, likely having slipped past Snape while he was focused on the imaginary intruder.

  


  
"Foolish" he grinds out, though the word is barely recognizable as English. His hand clasps his throat gently, though he does not lower his wand immediately. This is a just punishment for allowing himself to wander in thought, imagining dark shadows playing against the failing light of day, believing that the darkness had come to drag him down to hell for all his sins. There was simply no one here, and he had let himself get carried away with fear. His heart has found its way to his throat, the ache of it a familiar tension that settles in the center of his chest. Snape takes a deep, shuddering breath and falls to the couch, his wand replaced within his coat, his eyes closing as his head meets the softness of a pillow.

  


  
When he turns to look at the mantle, an odd shape in the fireplace catches his attention. His eyes drift down, acclimating to the low light of his flat. What he sees makes his blood run cold, his pulse returning to its harried rhythm from moments before.

  


  
Artemis, his tabby, has been gutted, his dark eyes fixed in fear and his fur glistening with what he could only assume was blood.

  


  
The strangled cry he lets forth startles even him, and he moves quickly off of the couch and over to the fireplace for a closer look. The cut was too precise to have been an accident - Artemis had a disturbing penchant for jumping from higher places than even a feline's agile body could withstand, often seemingly trying to get as close as he could to the pokers sitting next to the fireplace - and it was obvious that this had been deliberate. He always locked the deadbolt, and while picking the lock was not impossible, there were no signs of forced entry. To add to the confusion, he had also set protective wards - who, or what, could have gotten beyond them? There was no question in his mind that whomever had let themselves in had done so with a similar magic; this was not the work of a muggle. Perhaps his instincts were still intact, but his mind worked to find a plausible explanation that had nothing to do with magic or dark wizards or Death Eaters.

  


  
Carefully, Snape picks up what remained of his companion and took him to the kitchen, where Artemis was unceremoniously placed in a black garbage sack. Setting it down for the time being, Snape ran his hands under water as hot as he could stand, scrubbing lavender soap furiously to remove the blood. Once clean, he picked up the sack and carries it to the waste receptacle, quickly throwing it inside.

  


  
Once in the safety of his home, he makes a beeline for the bourbon decanter, half-full and calling to him from the dark wood armoire in the corner. He carefully sips the alcohol, the burn settling into his stomach and sending webs of warmth radiating throughout his body, calming his immolated nerves. A second drink follows it, the fear a present but muted sensation as his eyelids become unbearably heavy.

  


  
His sleep is fitful, plagued with a foreboding dream in which Snape stands alone amid rolling highlands, exposed to the elements and to the fear he carries with him into slumber.

  
****

****

  


* * *

  


  
Snape jerks awake, the bourbon glass falling from his hand and shattering on the floor. The beginning of a hangover, his body shocked from lack of hydration and a sudden onslaught of strong alcohol, surges for water. He walks into the bathroom, turning on the sink and standing above it, greedily drinking his fill.

  


  
The events of the previous evening are a stark reminder as he catches himself pouring dry food into Artemis' bowl, only to retract the bag of cat food when he realizes that the intended recipient has been shoved into a black garbage bag and stuffed into a waste bin. Grimacing, Snape checks the time - 7:01AM - and makes the unprecedented decision to cancel his classes and close the shop for the day. Typing out the email to his students, his fingers pause over the mouse just as he is about to press Send.

  


  
He had left the goddamned vegetables sitting on the front stoop, the canvas bag no doubt soaked from what seemed to be a harsh rain from the night before. If nothing else, the bounty contained within had merely been exceptionally well-washed.

  


  
Snape bends to pick up his forgotten root vegetables, and a flash of red and neon green stays his hand. Logan Paterson, the local paper boy, had stopped his bike and in his beefy hand proffered a fresh morning paper. Snape offered a mirthless smile, trotting down the steps to greet his young friend. Logan was a regular at the shop, taking Snape's cooking classes and becoming quite a passable culinary student. Snape took the paper from him, tucking it under his arm.

  


  
_"Thank you"_ he signed."I unfortunately have to cancel my classes today."

  


  
Logan offers a sympathetic smile. _"You look like you've felt better. I can't wait to show you the new recipe for sachertorte I've been working on; rhubarb and mango preserves instead of apricot."_

  


  
Snape chuckles at this, but it sounds like old, rusty bicycle brakes. _"That sounds wholly unappetizing, but I shall reserve criticism for when I taste it."_ Logan laughs, a full, rich sound that reminds Snape of a big, brassy handbell. Logan plays rugby at upper school, a talented and athletic young man who had gotten into a spot of trouble and found himself serving community service in the form of Snape's cookery classes. With the former wizard's help, he had discovered a latent talent for cooking and, to Snape's dismay, had an alarming penchant for combining the traditional with the downright absurd.

  


  
_"I shall look forward to it. Now run along, or you'll be late for school."_

  


  
_"Don't forget your vegetables - that bag looks like it's seen better days."_

  


  
Snape waves while Logan pushes off, his large, powerful legs propelling him at a good clip toward the edge of town as he begins his two-mile trek to school. If he weren't so young, Snape would consider him the closest thing he had to a friend - perhaps more than that, if he'd been just a couple of years older.

  


  
He hauls the rain-soaked bag into the house, plopping it down into the sink. For what seems like the first time since arriving home the night before, Snape draws a diaphragm-stretching breath.

  


  
There truly was only one explanation for what had happened to Artemis, for the message it intended to send. Someone knew that he was not, in fact, Gregor Willard, cookery shop owner. Someone knew that he was Severus Snape, and someone knew (or a group of someones) that he was quite alive.

  


  
Minerva had helped him escape Hogwarts during the final battle. She had kept him alive after Ngini's attack, draining her reserves of magic and nearly killing herself in the process. He was only able to escape thanks to her assistance, and he had promptly Obliviated that memory, ensuring that no one knew he had lived. Surely there had been speculation as a body had obviously not been recovered, but that could be easily explained - perhaps the Death Eaters took him as a trophy, perhaps his body had been so badly damaged that it was unrecognizable. Any number of things could have happened. Why would anyone have a doubt in their mind of whether or not Snape had lived?

  


  
Settling himself at his desk, he poised his wand over a piece of parchment. This was not ideal, but it had to happen. He had no other choice, and it wasn't safe to travel to deliver the message in person; not with someone leveling serious threats against him. Slowly, the swirling script of his handwriting began filling the page. If he stopped for a moment to rub his eyes with balled fists, it was certainly because he was tired, and only tired.

  



	2. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McGonagall receives Snape's letter. Harry is tasked with the most demanding extraction of his career.

  
Minerva McGonagall could measure the distance to her retirement in inches. Having spent the last two years slowly rebuilding Hogwarts - this seemed to include an endless parade of shell-shocked and traumatized students coming into her office seeking comfort she couldn't always give - and adding to her already formidable list of accomplishments, there were simply no new heights to ascend. The adage _quit while you're ahead_ doesn't seem entirely appropriate, but she acknowledges a sliver of truth in the sentiment. Rebuilding Hogwarts, maintaining trust and faith in the faculty and staff among terrified parents and scrupulous Ministry officials who have taken an increased interest in the school, had been and continues to be a demanding series of tasks. At her age, and given what she has already done, it simply doesn't make sense to languish in what had cooled down to administrative minutiae, the hot-heeled Ministry officials evaporating when she was able to prove that a bloody Basilisk or anything of that nature was being kept in the bowels of the school. She had wept, eulogized, grieved, and wept again. There were no more tears, no more bodies to bury.

  


  
Except, as she circled an arthritic thumb around the delicate gold leaf of a teacup, there seemed to be one final flailing loose end. She held it in her hands as though it would disintegrate if she applied any pressure to the parchment at all, her mouth open slightly and the tea having become lukewarm. She drinks it anyway, a shaking hand placing it back down on the saucer with a force she hadn't anticipated.

  


  
This was Severus Snape's handwriting; his typical biting, rapier diction evident even in the written word. She entertained the possibility that it was a cruel joke, maybe a bored sixth-year with a morbid sense of humor and a questionable grasp of moral terpitude. McGonagall had found the perfect marriage of pragmatism and intuition, the latter strongly suggesting that this was not a hoax: Severus Snape was alive. Not only was Snape alive, but he was being hunted - likely by Death Eaters, which is why she had sent for Gawain Robards almost exactly one hour ago.

  


  
When a prefect shuttles the Head of the Auror Department into her offices, she doesn't offer pleasantries. They're superfluous, gone with the decorum she so diligently portrayed as a proud woman who had quite literally gone through hell and back to protect what she loved most. And it was from that same love that she had reached out to him, hoping that something could be done - and discretely.

  


  
Gawain Robards is a middle aged man of stocky build and churning gray eyes, dressed in a conservative charcoal suit, crisp cuffed white button-down, and a navy tie with small white polka dots. His hair is almost entirely silver, though there are hints of the chestnut brown hair admired by many a member of the opposite sex in his day. Even McGonagall had fallen prey to his steady, even voice; the way he was able to diffuse the most vexing situation with a silken tenor spoken just a node above a whisper so that one had to practically lean forward to hear him. He was the perfect person with whom to discuss such matters, and this is not wholly due to his position. There is a reason he found himself the head of a department, specifically the auror department, and it was because he never, ever let the side down. McGonagall admired this about him, ushering him inside and piercing the prefect who hung in the doorway with an expectant, this-is-not-a-suggestion raised eyebrow. The boy made a hasty exit, shutting the door behind him.

  


  
"I received your message, Minerva. You certainly have a way of getting straight to the point."

  


  
She decided on a direct approach to match the frantic note she had sent him earlier. "Severus Snape is alive, Mr. Robards. He wrote me a letter, explaining his current whereabouts and a highly disturbing threat of which he was the recipient just yesterday." It is perhaps too much information; her hunch is confirmed when Robards stares back at her, his jaw slack.

  


  
"That isn't possible."

  


  
She decides to let the letter speak for itself, handing it over and into one of Gawain's rough, thick hands. He reads slowly, absorbing every word. When he finishes five minutes later (perhaps one of the longest stretches of time in McGongagall's life), he places it down in front of him as though it could take flight and bite him in the face.

  


  
"His injuries" his voice is a tremolo of uncertainty, though still as sure of itself even in the face of the impossible, the inexplicable "are severe. If it isn't Snape, whoever it is has done an excellent job of accurately describing wounds that only he would know about."

  


  
"There is one other person who was with him before he supposedly died: Harry Potter. I believe he is currently serving as one of your aurors."

  


  
"Surely you're not suggesting -"

  


  
"Of course not. If it is verification you want, I would speak with him. As he is the sole individual who last saw Severus Snape prior to what is believed to have been his death, he can tell you the location of his wound."

  


  
"No, no. I've seen enough, and I quite believe that the individual who wrote this letter is in fact Severus Snape." Robards rises slowly from the chair, walking over to the window and looking out over the grounds of Hogwarts. The time for disbelief and awe is over; the business of deciding on a course of action lie before them, although the man seemed reluctant to do so. "As Snape was a Death Eater" he begins, his back still to McGonagall "the only fitting course of action would be to have him extracted from his current location and brought to the Ministry. His protection, and that of the muggles among whom he lives, is of the utmost importance."

  


  
"Am I to believe that you are convinced that a Death Eater has located him? That a surviving member is threatening him?" Oh, how she sounds desperate. She wouldn't go so far as to say that Snape was a friend - the man made it a point to be as disagreeable as possible - but she had cared for him. About him. Over the years, one of her enduring wishes was that she would have been able to tell him how he honored Dumbledore's memory and the school he served by doing what he had done. There were so few men with that kind of courage, and such a man is worth fighting for.

  


  
"You know as well as I that he would be considered a traitor to the cause. Any Death Eaters still living would be bound by their oaths to Voldemort to kill him for that treachery. If this cat killer is in fact a Death Eater, he is already in grave danger."

  


  
McGonagall, nothing left to say, joins Robards by the window. His eyes are cloudy, a shadow of some otherworldly detachment she has seen before in tens of others like him, men and women that had seen firsthand the ravages of war. Her mind stretched back to those memories, as well; this is the look fo a man who knows what he must do and damns his fear to great depths within him. She recognizes that, too.

  


  
"I will send auror Potter to retrieve Snape and bring him to the Ministry. If Harry was the last one to see him alive, he may be the only individual Snape will trust."

  


  
Obviously the man knew nothing about Snape's relationship with Harry Potter. Impossibly strained, they had only made amends at the end after Ngini had bitten the professor. Harry had told her the story, once: knowing that he was going to die, Snape revealed the depths of his devotion to Lily Potter, his mother, and expressed that his detachment was a result of a years-long vendetta against James Potter, and the powerful remorse he had experienced upon witnessing the aftermath of Voldemort's attack on the Potters. That he had agreed to protect Harry with the provision that he never reveal the extent of his friendship with Lily, and the abuses he suffered from James.

  


  
McGonagall had been completely ignorant about that part of Snape's life, knowing that the source of his sour aloofness was a result of years of taunts and torment. She had suspected something deeper, perhaps physical abuse when he was a child, but she dared not ask and so the subject of his exceptionally tough exterior was, as they say, the elephant in the room. To know now that Snape had been as devoted to Harry as he had been to Albus was nothing short of heroic, miraculous even, especially considering his great love for Lily - and the lengths James had gone to that Snape would suffer for his childish love of Lily.

  


  
It was heartbreaking, and it was not common knowledge and so she wondered how Potter would push back when Robards gave him this assignment.

  


  
"Let me talk to him" she hears herself blurt out. "I think he needs to hear this from someone who was there, Mr. Robards. I hope you don't interpret that to mean you are somehow incompetent -"

  


  
"On the contrary, I'm inclined to agree. It's a sharp departure from procedure, but familiarity will do Harry some good." His voice becomes even softer, conspiratorial "he's not doing well, professor. His work as an auror is second to none, but emotionally" he makes a noncommittal hand gesture, denoting perhaps that Potter's emotional state was just as shiftless "there is something wrong. I haven't been able to discern what, but he's been distracted of late; defensive. This may give him a renewed sense of purpose. He's suffering from some kind of residual trauma, maybe struggling to make sense of a life after war."

  


  
"As are we all, but none to the same degree as Harry. He quite literally carried the world on his shoulders for six years, which by my estimation is entirely too long. If he had the opportunity to repay the debt he likely believes he owes to Snape, perhaps he can find healing enough in that."

  


  
Robards nods his final agreement. "I will send him to you immediately. He leaves for the Cotswolds tonight."

  


  
McGonagall offers a curt nod, sitting down once more behind her desk, Gawain looking at her expectantly, but she had nothing left to say. It would be a betrayal of both Harry's and Snape's trust to impart upon him the sundry details of their contentious relationship and the truce they only drew at what Severus believed was the end of his life. Besides all of that, it was highly unlikely that Harry pardoned him for having ended Albus' life, even if it had been done out of deep loyalty and an even more ardent need to further protect Harry from the danger in which the former headmaster had placed him. There are reasons, of unfathomable seriousness, which necessitated each choice they had made. It had been a partnership between them all, founded on the notion that Harry was the true savior of wizarding Britain, and that keeping him alive was of the highest importance. Harry never quite understood that, believing as he did then and seemed to still that it was his fault that they were all in danger, almost incapable of protecting themselves. Ironic, that while he was busy wringing his hands and concerning himself with the safety of those he loved, he was actually the one who needed saving.

  


  
Severus Snape had been perhaps more involved in that mission that Albus, though McGonagall remained silent in that belief. Snape was not a bad man; this could not be further from the truth. He was misguided, grossly so, still bearing the scars of a life spent misunderstood and reviled for who and what he was, and the similarities between Harry's life and his were glaringly apparent. It's likely why they had butt heads as much as they had; McGonagall wonders if Harry ever regretted this, having been afforded the full picture of Snape's devotion to Lily - and to Harry himself - at what he thought was the end of his life.

  


  
Death Eaters were dangerous wizards, but there was hope yet if Harry was successful in convincing Severus to return to the protection of the world in which he belonged. There would be time enough, after the danger had passed, to make amends and find the closure they were both so desperate to experience.

  


  
The tea, strong and dark and nearly as black as Snape's hair, was now cold. She drank deeply anyway, not having realized that her shoulders had jumped to her ears. She wondered if he had noticed how nervous she had been, to tell a man that a hero had essentially come back from the dead.

  
  


* * *

****

****

  


  
No sooner does Harry's fingers brush the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket than Gawain barges through the office doors with such force that they bang against the wall behind them, projecting his voice through the mid-sized office with equal force. "Harry, my office. Now, if you please."

  


  
There was no point in arguing that he was just out to lunch, his craving for that first crackly drag of a cigarette beckoning to him, promising the alleviate the mounting tension in his neck. He follows the stocky man to his office, having to take long strides to keep up despite the fact that Robards is only four inches taller.

  


  
"Sir, I -"

  


  
"Be quiet and put your hands on the portkey." He brandished the object from inside his suit jacket, an ostentatious and obviously expensive fountain pen. Harry raises an eyebrow questioningly. "Just do it, and don't ask questions. Come back when you're finished."

  


  
The job of an auror often requires a measure of secrecy so great the only other individual with the clearance to discuss their missions is the Minister of Magic himself. It is often required, which took some getting used to, the occasional surprise fact-finding jaunt to wherever Robards bid him go.

  


  
Harry touched the portkey, sliding through a place beyond the physical world before falling squarely in the middle of the rolling moors on the grounds of Howarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The wind picked up, sending a blast of cold air to which he was impervious in his auror uniform. Still, he could think of far more enjoyable things than trudging through the moors to Hogwarts. Swearing, he cursed Robarts under his breath and set off and a recalcitrant but quick pace.

  



	3. My Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potter returns to Hogwarts for the first time since the war. McGonagall reveals that Snape is alive, and Harry leaves London to find him.

  
By the time he gets to the long bridge leading into the school, his breath was coming in ragged gasps - and not because of the exertion from traversing the moors; because the last time he had stood in this place, he had been fighting for his life. Swallowing hard, Harry walks down the long bridge toward the entrance of Hogwarts. The doors open when he's about halfway, and his face breaks out into a wide smile when he sees Minerva McGonagall standing before him.

  


  
"Professor" he says, taking her hand in greeting. "I don't exactly know why I'm here, but it is truly good to see you again."

  


  
McGonagall is far more stoic, but she shakes Harry's hand in both of hers. Harry continues, nervous "I've been meaning to keep in touch, but -" 

  
"It's quite all right, Potter. The last two years have been a busy time for us all. I'm sorry to say this meeting isn't a social call, but I am glad to see you, as well." She beckons him to follow her, ascending the stone steps to the familiar offices of the headmaster. He shudders when he remembers the last time he was in that office.

  


  
"You've repaired the school quite nicely." Maybe it's lame to say, but he is impressed with how it almost seems as though nothing happened.

  


  
"Yes, well; there was and continues to be more work to be done, but it's a healthy start. Tea?"

  


  
McGonagall knows that she's stalling. She pours Harry a cup of stout black tea, setting it down in front of him before swinging around to her desk and lowering herself into the chair, beginning slowly. "I've just spoken with Mr. Robards this morning. He was interested in a letter I received; a letter from a mutual colleague of yours and mine." She brandishes the letter from her desk, handing it to Harry.

  


  
He recognizes the handwriting immediately, his heart thumping in his chest so that he's certain the palpitations are visible.

  


_  
Minerva,_

  


_  
It had been my hope to walk away from wizarding Britain, to cut that part of me out like a gangrenous wound to save the rest of me. I do not believe that I have left any business unfinished, nor have I behaved in a way that I regret. The actions I took during the second wizarding war were ones that I was mandated both by honor and duty to uphold, and I delivered on each of the oaths that I made - some to men who did not deserve it, although I would not call that regret. I did what I had to do, just as you did._

__  


_  
I did not die in the Shrieking Shack; that much should be evident by now. Though I lived, Nagini's bite has left me unable to speak anything more than a few single-syllable words at a time. The scars he left wind around my throat, an angry red reminder of my own last stand against Voldemort. But death did not come to me as I had anticipated it would. It was with your help that I stayed alive, and it was also with your help that I was able to flee Hogwarts in those early morning hours. I fled first to London, to recover from the initial trauma of my injuries, and then on to the Cotswolds where I have lived among muggles for the last two years. This co-existence has been peaceful until yesterday._

___  
_

__

  
_I arrived home from the market when I discovered Artemis, my cat, had been dismembered. His wounds seemed too precise for any muggle instrument, and so I was forced to consider that a magical being had been responsible. As you know, I am a Death Eater; however, the knowledge of my ultimate betrayal of Voldemort is not common, though if it is known by those D.E.s who survived, I would be considered a traitor. My death would be an honor killing, to pay homage to the memory of the Dark Lord and penance for allowing subversion in their number._

  


  
_As I cannot speak, I cannot cast; as I cannot cast, I am unable to protect myself to the fullest extent of my abilities. That I would need to ask your help, to implore you, is a strike against what remains of my pride whose depth I cannot fully explain. I did not want this, Minerva. I wanted, and perhaps naively so, to be free of the shackles that constrained me during the wars; I wanted to leave behind the secrets I bid Albus keep, the pain Potter had to endure and which I would have gladly given my life to shoulder instead of him, and the fighting against myself for the difficulty in playing both sides of an unwinnable war. You know that this will never be truly over, I presume; as long as there are dark wizards and Death Eaters, there will be aspirants to finish what Voldemort started. Not a one of us is safe; not even, and especially, me._

__  


  
_It is with deep humility that I ask you for assistance. I cannot defeat them - not on my own. I am willing to re-enter the wizarding world, but only to rid it of the residual evil left in Voldemort's wake. There will always be darkness, but a new generation will rise up to shine their light upon it. This is my last stand._

__  


_Sincerely,_

_Severus Snape_

  
"This is impossible" Harry whispered. "I watched him die" he adds, a bit lamely McGonagall thinks, as she watches the truth sinking its fangs into Harry much the same way as Nagini had to Severus. " I - we have to help him. He's right; he's not safe. This was clearly the work of a Death Eater." Harry becomes angry, suddenly, and McGonagall is taken aback. "He of all people should know better than to hide in plain sight, and among muggles no less. Can you imagine what would happen if the Cotswolds of all places fell prey to an onslaught of Death Eaters? We'd be done for. Merlin knows we already very nearly outed ourselves during the crisis of Voldemort's return. Some of those were even my fault." Potter's gaze falls to the top of the desk, but he continues speaking. McGonagall is unnerved by the lack of eye contact; it is almost as if Harry has become a boy again, a student in her charge and withstanding the presumptions that he will be victorious over the most powerful dark wizard in recent history. That same fear, so tangible now, was also laced with a hysterical elation; Potter's voice had reached a decibel that could only be categorized as unprofessional. Here, in this office, he was allowed that trespass; but not in the world beyond. He knows this, McGonagall realizes as he treats the letter with the same care as though it were a living, breathing thing, placing it on the desk.

  


  
"I had just barely convinced Mr. Robards that I ought to be the one to tell you. I know your relationship with Severus was one of respect, but also contention. He will be safe with you, Harry. I know this, and I daresay so will he."

  


  
The initial shock fading, Potter resets his features. McGonagall notices that his face is dusted with the beginnings of a beard, though he still looks like a young man barely old enough to shave. His hair is not the unruly nest of brown it was before; he's learned to tame it, and his auror's uniform is crisp with only a few wrinkles in odd places. He truly does look as though he has grown up, his resolve matching his appearance, although McGonagall can still detect fear and trepidation. It is natural, she thinks, and allows him that trespass as well. He cannot be expected to play the hero at all times.

  


  
"I think Robards wanted to see me after we spoke. I imagine he'll send me to him straightaway."

  


  
McGonagall places her hands on the desk, interweaving her fingers and essaying a cautious smile. "Have you ever been to the Cotswolds, Harry? It won't take you long to find him. I'm certain that Mr. Robards has gathered any necessary intelligence you may require, but -" she stops, reaching into her desk yet again and pulling out a wand Harry recognized immediately. "I have kept this since. I should have destroyed it, as that was the intention of whomever discarded it" Harry blushed knowingly "but it is too valuable, especially in light of recent events, to be kept from you." She holds it out to him, waiting. "Take it. Use it. The power you give this tool is only as strong as your intentions, Mr. Potter. If your intentions are noble, then so will be this wand."

  


  
The Elder Wand seemed to glow with an ethereal halo around it, beckoning Harry to take hold of it and stow it away. He had stood on that broken bridge, throwing it down to the chasm beneath Hogwarts. That McGonagall had found it was nothing short of incredible; then again, if the wand wanted to be found, it would have been easy enough to do so. Obviously its usefulness had not reached its end following the final battle; Harry is somehow energized by this, a kind of adrenaline he hasn't felt since felling Voldemort two years ago.

  


  
He takes the wand from her, tucking it away in the breast pocked of his auror uniform. "How did he escape the final battle?"

  


  
"That I can't say. If I weren't afraid of this news getting out at such an early stage, I would begin a formal inquiry; as it stands, I don't think that detail matters."

  


  
It mattered to Harry, but as soon as he found Snape, he would ask. "Thank you, professor. For everything. I think I'm still in shock."

  


  
"As am I, dear boy. As am I."

  


  
When he leaves Hogwarts, weaving through students clad in house colors (his eyes linger a bit too long on the Gryffindor house tapestry, on the neckties he remembers barely being able to do himself without Ron's help) and out the main door, he reaches in his pocket for Robards' pen portkey. Holding it in two hands, he is immediately transported back to the Auror Office, and immediately throws open Robards' door.

  


  
"You could have at least warned me."

  


  
"There wasn't time, and Professor McGonagall's offer to tell you was perfect in that I cannot have that kind of information floating around this office; at least, not yet. The Ministry doesn't even know."

  


  
"You have got to be kidding me. Severus Snape, one of the most celebrated heroes of the war, is alive - and you haven't told the bloody Ministry of Magic. Unreal."

  


  
"Potter, if I told them, they would first think me mad and then want to haul him in for questioning about Dumbledore's death." Harry's mouth hangs open "And don't think for a second that I don't know about that. Minerva and I have been colleagues and friends for years; I know more than you would think. Anyway, more than _she_ thinks I know, certainly."

  


  
"Setting that aside for the moment, it would still be prudent to tell _someone_ in the Ministry before I haul him back to them for what I'm sure will be questioning regardless. He's a Death Eater, and one that has been presumed dead. It'll be a media circus."

  


  
Robards looks out his window, down on the street congested with wizards and witches going about their business with complete ignorance of the world beyond their own grocery lists, their own careers, their own families. Part of the problem with wizarding Britain was its reactionary involvement in conflict; the Ministry had kept so many secrets for so long that when the hounds were at the gate, it was all the general public could do to react. There can be no tough action when their governing body was still dedicated to the notion of low transparency. Harry sought to correct that in his work, as did Robards, but they could only effect change so much as two people. But that's how true change starts: with a handful of individuals who want to do the right thing.

  


  
"I feel badly for them, you know. Still ignorant of so much that has changed our world since Voldemort was vanquished again, and mostly because the Ministry doesn't want to create panic; ironic, as that's what happens when they withhold too much."

  


  
"Which is why I think that we need to tell someone about Snape. Look, I realize the danger he's in; I've spent the last year and-a-half chasing after dark wizards, bringing them before the Wizengamot for their rightful sentences. Before that, I was the target; believe me, the war is won, but the battles are still raging. If we had Snape on our side, they would doubly cower in fear."

  


  
Robards chuckles. "They already do, Potter. Your status as the Boy Who Lived is quite permanent, and it petrifies them. But we must be careful not to disrupt the public peace with this one. When Severus is back, I'll notify the Ministry and put together a press release. He'll need to be in protective custody, which means that you will need to stay with him until he finds other arrangements." Harry nods, accepting his assignment. "I need you in the Cotswolds by tonight. I fear the cat was a warning; what comes next could be deadly. His alias, I've just learned, is Gregor Willard. He owns a cookery shop, likely the only one in town. It shouldn't take you long to find him." Harry turns to leave, feeling a need to linger but knowing that he has all the information he needs.

  


  
"Oh, and Harry; plainclothes, if you please, and, uh, you might remember that the man can't speak."

  


  
"Right. Well, then. I'll deliver my report when I return."

  


  
"Be careful, Harry." It was not a vacant parting sentiment; they both knew that while Snape was in danger, Harry was also - perhaps even more so. "I will" he says determinedly, turning on his heel and walking out of the office. Robards stays by the window, watching the witches and wizards below and offering a silent prayer to Merlyn that this turns out to be a big hoax.

  
  


* * *

****

**  
**

  
In all great friendships, turns are taken to uphold the other as they go through the rigors of life. These demands took on more urgency when it came to Ron, Hermione, and Harry; they had each been there for the other in their turn, they had each sacrificed parts of themselves they would never recover for the good of the group. While Harry struggled to accept his post-war life, Hermione had flourished as a mightily capable witch; but she didn't find any imbalance in how she was constantly the one to drag Harry through the minefield of interpersonal battles still raging within him. It seemed the least she could do for a man who saved her way of life, and the lives of so many, with his courage and bravery two years ago - and indeed, in the years prior.

  


  
He'd called her to his flat, ostensibly to help him pack when in truth he needed the type of reassurance only Hermione could give. That, and he trusted her to not divulge the secret he was about to take a risk in telling her; Ron would have run off and accidentally spilled the beans - and he didn't need the redhead's decided proclivity toward hysteria regardless.

  


  
Harry had already changed into plainclothes: a pair of tapered gray Nike sweatpants, allowing the freedom of quick, agile movement; a pair of tennis shoes, and a black t-shirt under a black zip-up hooded sweatshirt. He looked completely nondescript and certainly not official as he did in his uniform. Just another muggle, perhaps out for a jog. He'd become good at this, Hermione noted with no small sense of pride. Using his brain, learning to plan and observe rather than barreling forward wildly at the first sign of trouble. They had all grown up, it seemed; even Ron, also an auror, who was on an extended assignment in Germany to hunt down a coven of necromancer witches in a hilarious attempt to summon Voldemort from the dead. Harry turned to Hermione, snapping her out of her reverie. "How do I look?"

  


  
"Not suspicious. Like a muggle on the way to the gym."

  


  
"Perfect. If any Death Eaters are lurking around the Cotswolds, they won't know what hit them."

  


  
He sighs, sitting down on his ratty, comfortable couch. "I need to tell you where I'm going, and who I'm retrieving. You may not believe me, and that's fine; I hardly believe it myself, but I have to know for sure."

  


  
Harry takes a deep breath before finally lighting the cigarette for which he'd longed all day. He takes a drag, letting the curling smoke out in one long exhalation, his shoulders relaxing immediately, the tension in his face melting into resolve. "Severus Snape is alive, 'Mione. He's alive, and he's being hunted; likely by Death Eaters, but that has yet to be confirmed, which is why I'm going to find him. If there are still dark wizards who want to finish what Voldemort started, they'll go for the one person who defied him most other than me." He takes another drag, which is answered by Hermione crinkling her nose in disgust.

  


  
"I thought you'd quit."

  


  
"I just told you that Snape is alive, and your first response is questioning my bad habits?"

  


  
Hermione looks around the flat; dishes piled in the sink, dusting having gone ignored for so long a thin film of it covered the face of the flat-screen TV, the gaming console in the equally dirty entertainment center underneath, and the auror uniform he had dumped, forgotten, on the back of the chair in which she was sitting. He had not been able to find a life that was orderly, that made sense. A surge of pity overtook her; Harry waited, expectantly with eyes narrowed, for a response.

  


  
"I think that if he is alive, you owe it to not only the Ministry to find him, but yourself. Look around you, Harry; have you ever been able to bury him? To forgive yourself for deaths you never could have prevented, for an outcome that was a direct result of the work you did, the work we all did, to defeat Voldemort?"

  


  
"Snape gave me some of his memories before he supposedly died. He showed me the truth of the terror my father was, how he tormented Snape. How much he loved my mother. I had so many questions, but I knew that he wouldn't be able to answer them; that those answers would perish with him. His injuries were severe, and it seemed like he was on death's doorstep. So I went back to the battle, the whole time wondering what might have been. Would we have been friends? Would he have stayed at Hogwarts? If he had lived through all of that, only to be tried and sent to Azkaban for killing Dumbledore?"

  


  
"It does no good to wonder, Harry. You may yet get those answers, but you have to know that the first priority is keeping him alive."

  


  
"Of course. I can't let my personal feelings cloud my ability to protect him, but they exist. I - I didn't want to believe that he was dead. Those things he said to me - he loved me, 'Mione. He loved my mother, and he wanted to do right by me. In many ways, he was in a worse position than I was."

  


  
Hermione, sitting in the middle of both Harry's broken mind and cluttered flat, couldn't help but agree. "Yes, and now you both have the opportunity to truly make amends. Go and help him. Bring him home."

  


  
Their goodbyes were somber, a brief but hardy embrace signaling a temporary parting. Hermione, like Robards, knew that Harry was in as much danger as Snape himself; but, unlike Robards, she knew that he would come back - and with Severus Snape. For better or worse, one of the most celebrated heroes of their time would return. Maybe it would be enough to heal them all - Hermione herself included, for her wounds were invisible but still deep.

  


  
She had offered to mind his flat in his absence. He said that, once he had successfully located Snape, this is the first place they would go. With nothing else to do, she waited. Waited, worried, and began the process of healing her own heart. She would be no good to Harry or Snape if she too could not audit her own formidable list of losses and regrets.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I spelled 'Nagini' correctly. Lol. Jesus - I promise I'm not a complete dweeb who doesn't even know how to spell the names of well-known characters. I write a lot at work, dividing my time between this and, uh, my job. Apologies, and thank you to the reader who kindly pointed that out!  
> 2\. I wanted to clear up the sign language issue, if only for myself. It's not practical to expect Snape to be writing his side of the conversation all the time, especially if they're short exchanges. He's mute, not deaf, but he sometimes resorts to sign in order to save time.  
> 3\. I'm loving writing this so far. I wrote something similar a year or so ago, with a half-formed idea that totally sucked. This is better, but I'm biased.


	4. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds Snape; Snape recoils. A Death Eater doesn't bother knocking politely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Oppugno (used to induce an object or objects to attack)  
> 2\. Confringo (Blasting Curse)

  
His resignation as an instructor and owner of the cookery shop, which he had aptly called _The Pestle_ , was sent and received by his students, vendors, and employees later on the day after he had discovered Artemis. It hadn't been a difficult decision, although there was sadness involved; he had poured a substantial amount of his savings into the shop, hoping that he could hinge his retirement in the muggle world on its success and would have likely been able to do so within the next decade, but that plan had been quickly dashed. Logan was the first to reply, stating his disappointment - Snape had cited medical reasons, which wasn't entirely a lie, as the reason for the closure - and wished him well. The replies continued pouring in, a few of his employees voicing distaste at how quickly the decision had been made. His own replies were short and to the point, much like how he communicated as a professor at Hogwarts. None of it was ideal, but it was necessary; he was sorry for an inconvenience he had caused. He left no forwarding address, of course. This, admittedly, scared him.

  


  
The day after, he holed himself up in his flat, electing not to go out in the event that there was someone - or something - lurking in his small town that would see harm come to him, hoping instead that whoever it was would come to him if directly to deal such a fate. It was late in the afternoon, around 3pm, when he heard a commotion coming from the small garden in the back of the house he had kept; his own private stock of herbs and vegetables, most of which he used in the rare times he brewed potions.

  


  
With all possible caution, and as it was broad daylight, he moved to the back of the house and slowly swept the curtain aside.

  


  
He'd be damned if he didn't see Harry bloody Potter, dusting himself off and looking around, standing in the middle of his healthy patch of carrots.

  


  
Flinging the door open, he ran outside and pulled a protesting Harry Potter into the dining room. The boy looked at him, blinked twice, and finally registered the identity of his assailant.

  


  
"Snape?"

  


  
He winced, touching his throat to signal that he could not verbally reply. He held out his wand, pointing it at the top of the kitchen table. In the dark wood glowed five words:

  


  
_What are you doing here?_

__  


  
"I'm an auror. I heard there was a Death Eater after you; I've come to take you back to London, to the Ministry."

  


  
Snape huffed, pointing his wand with greater alacrity at the table. _You've ruined my garden._

  


  
Harry stares back at him, drinking in the man he thought had died in his arms. "Fuck your garden; why didn't you tell anyone you were still alive?"

  
Angrily, new words appeared on the table. _One flees from something because one does not wish to remain within it. I left behind my former life; that is, until my cat was turned inside out by what I can only assume is in fact a Death Eater. I sent that letter to Professor McGonagall; how did you know?_

  


  
"She's the one who bloody told me! Robards, who if you remember, is the Head of the Auror Department, assigned me to this case. Don't worry - no one knows you're still alive. Not yet, anyway. Well, except for Hermione, but -"

  


  
Snape made a low, menacing sound with his throat, his wand still pointed at the table. _You might as well have told the whole of wizarding London. You've put us both in considerable danger. I doubt we have much time before whomever killed my cat shows up to finish the job._

  


  
"Then we'd better get moving." He looks around, the fine china displayed in a hutch, a mortar and pestle sitting on the shelf beneath it, a well-appointed kitchen stocked with older but lovingly maintained gadgets; an immaculate stove, no pictures or magnets on the refrigerator. It's a tidy if not unremarkable abode, bearing no trace of who Snape was as or what he loved, beyond his bloody stupid garden and his bloody clean kitchen.

  


  
Their eyes meet for the first time since the Shrieking Shack, and Harry thinks he might pass out. Snape rolls his eyes and Harry looks down at the kitchen table.

  


  
_This isn't the most ideal situation for either of us. And there's no time to lose._

__  


  
Harry didn't have any time to ask Snape to touch the portkey pen before the unmistakable sizzle of a spellbolt shot the front door off its hinges, the force knocking both of them to the ground. The time for speaking was over; it was obvious that the cat killer had now come for Snape.

  


  
The former Death Eater scrambles to his feet first, looking at Harry pleadingly. Potter remembers Snape's horrifying admission in the letter: he can't cast as well without a voice. He is, in effect, a sitting duck.

  


  
Harry barely manages to push him into a utility closet before the assailant raids the kitchen, sees Harry, and screams " _Confringo!"_ in a heavy, unmistakable accent. He ducks behind the wall that juts out to separate the dining room from the kitchen; Harry whirls around, Elder Wand at the ready, a voice he barely recognizes as his own shouting _"Oppugno!"_

_at the stove, which causes its door to fly open and spit fire at the crouched Death Eater. Harry's efforts are rewarded with the would-be assassin's wail of pain as fire engulfs his casting arm, leaving in its wake what is at the least a second-degree burn. His wand is gone, reduced to ash. The scorched face of Antonin Dolohov looks up at him, his red-brimmed eyes pleading._

  


  
"You are under arrest by the order of the Ministry of Magic. You have the right to a solicitor; you have the right to a fair and just trial by the Wizengamot; if you cannot afford one, you are so entreated to represent yourself." The words come automatically, but before Harry can finish reading the Death Eater his rights, he disappears. Into thin air. Without the ability to cast, or a portkey, or even a bloody Floo, it isn't possible - but Harry knows what he saw. And what he saw was seamlessly-cast wandless magic.

  


  
Snape kicks open the door of the utility closet, almost throwing his wand at the face of the blackened refrigerator. _There will be no way to explain what just happened. We have to leave._

  


  
"He's gone, and I can't leave without him."

  


  
_We don't have time for this, Mr. Potter. Your infuriating completion fetish is still intact, I see._  


  
"You are the last person in the world who should be arguing with me right now. I'm the only reason you're alive."

  


  
_There are plenty of other tools at my disposal. Shoving me into a closet was short-sighted on your part at best. Some things never change._

__  


  
"I just saved your LIFE. I see _you're_ still a sour git. 'Some things don't change' is apropos, indeed."

  


  
_Arguing is useless and we are wasting time. Thanks to your half-hearted Oppugno, the fire marshal will be here any moment. You may finish your argumentative and frankly rather disturbing line of dialogue when we return to the Ministry._

  


  
Harry's mouth opens quickly, then closes again. He's right, and this is no way for an auror to behave. Besides, his counter curse was brilliant; it's obvious that Snape still somehow finds him incompetent. "Right" he takes out the portkey pen, beckoning Snape forward. "Let's go."

  


  
And then they're falling, a sensation Snape remembers but isn't used to anymore, the sensation of being outside of one's body for a moment completely disorienting him. When they land, it takes him a moment to collect himself again. Looking around, it's obvious they're in some kind of safe house.

  


  
"My flat" Harry mutters, but way of explanation. "And no cracks about how dirty it is."

  


  
Snape takes his wand out and tiredly points it at the wall. His handwriting reappears, much calmer this time. _I am getting too old to be shot through the fibers of time and space. And this place is a disaster; that's all I'll say about it._  


  
Hermione had been napping in Harry's room when they had come through the portkey, but when she emerged, she was fully awake within seconds. "So it _is_ true."

  


  
A gurgling sound tears from Snape's throat. His hand shoots up his neck and he realizes that the scarf must have fallen off of him during the brief duel in his kitchen. _You are still a poor student of discretion, Mr. Potter. Ms. Granger._

  


  
The temper on her had not diminished over the years. "You're literally back from the dead and all you have to say - erm, write - is 'Ms. Granger'? Not 'hello, how are you, I'm sorry I disappeared and left the whole of Hogwarts in the lurch when you could have used me the most'?! You haven't changed a bit."

  


  
The writing on the wall returned to its frantic, angry pace. _You have no idea what it is to straddle both sides, making your efforts seem genuine to both masters, fooling one and condemning the other to an early grave. And you have no idea what kind of torment it was to live through all of that only to feel as though I could not remain in the world I loved._

  


  
"So you admit it; you loved Hogwarts. You loved teaching."

  


  
_I told Harry what I loved. I trust he hasn't gone that far to betray my good faith._

__  


  
Hermione turns to Harry, confusion and sleep wearing on her face. "Regardless of what you might think, Professor Snape, it is good to see you again. And alive."

  


  
Harry lights a cigarette, shocking both Snape and Hermione. "You cut your hair" he observes, cutting the tension with the obvious though somewhat ludicrous statement. "It, uh, isn't you I'm afraid."

  


  
Snape assumes his old scowl, glowering over Harry. _That is a foul habit even for you. And you know that blending in is necessary when dealing with muggle communities._

  


  
"Which begs my next question" Harry asked lazily, taking another drag, his elbow resting on the arm of his couch and looking for all the world like he hadn't just dueled a dangerous Death Eater "why the Cotswolds? And why not just go into exile in a community of other wizards and witches? Why was it necessary to risk their lives?"

  


  
Snape sits down, pointing his wand at the coffee table. The words on the wall, just as those on his table, had long since disappeared. Harry wondered if it was a spell of his own design to be able to communicate, although he wondered how he managed when conversing with muggles.

  


  
_My grandfather had kept a residence there for several years - the muggle side - and I had wanted to spend my retirement there, tending a garden like the one you destroyed with your questionable portkey, and perhaps teaching some art or cooking class. I had succeeded in those goals until Artemis was killed, and death's shadow loomed over me once more._

  


  
"So it was selfishness that brought you there, just as it was selfishness that made you leave." Hermione's chin is tilted in defiance, looking every bit the student she had been rather than the young woman she was now. Severus couldn't help but pierce her with a self-satisfied smirk, much as he did when he was her potions professor.

  


  
_I was gravely injured. It took six months just for me to be able to eat solid food again. I spent that time here in London, although I was careful not to go out in public more than necessity demanded, and I was holed up in hospital for so long I couldn't have even if I had wanted to. The logical next step was to put it all behind me._

____  


  
Harry puts out his half-smoked cigarette. "You knew that couldn't happen, not after -" Snape's eyes flash a warning. He knew what Potter was going to say: not after what you told me in the Shrieking Shack. Not after what your memories showed me. It's a subject he doesn't want to broach with Granger there to bear witness to the most vulnerable moment in Snape's life, other than immediately after Lily's death, and he had no desire to discuss either of those things. Not yet, at least, although he knows that Harry must harbor some need for foolishness and 'closure'.

  


  
"We need to get to the Ministry. You aren't safe until you're in their custody. It likely won't be comfortable, and we'll have to be careful - if you're seen, it'll be pandemonium." Harry jumps up, running to his room and returning with the Invisibility Cloak.

  


  
_I see you still keep your souvenirs close at hand._

__  


  
"Just shut up and put it on. Come on." Snape throws the cloak around his shoulders, looking at the world through the thin veneer of the magical garment. At least he wouldn't be discovered by making noise.

  


  
Harry seemed lost in thought. "I - I don't know, Hermione. Should I take him to McGonagall first?"

  


  
Granger sounds incredulous. "How would that do him any good? This isn't a reunion tour, Harry. His life is at stake, and now so is yours. What happened in the Cotswolds?"

  


  
"We were ambushed by a Death Eater - Antonin Dolohov. I recognized him straightaway; he's already on my docket as one of the D.E.s I need to catch and the Ministry wants to prosecute, but he had eluded me and I'd never seen him again before today. The only reason he escaped was wandless magic. If memory serves, he was a powerful adversary during the battle for Hogwarts, too."

  


  
Snape had removed the Invisibility Cloak, satisfied with its ability to keep him hidden. He stood in the middle of Potter's squalid living room, allowing himself to feel quite lost. This was a world he no longer understood; he had not _wanted_ to understand, which is why he had fled after a rushed recovery unaided by magic to the protective anonymity of the Cotswolds. And why would Granger of all people take issue with that, considering that the muggle world was just as much of an escape for her?

  


  
He takes a labored breath and points his wand back at the wall. _Miss Granger is correct; we should leave for the Ministry. I will not be safe regardless, but I stand a better chance if I'm there._

  


  
Potter nods, the murky quality of his eyes having dissipated with the temporary confusion of where they should go next. There hadn't been a question of where; it seemed that Harry was stuck in much the same reverie as was Granger and, Snape grudgingly admitted, himself. Unwilling to cede that there may not be time for all the things he wanted to say, Potter took the portkey pen out of his jeans pocket and held it up to Snape. "Ready?"

  


  
Snape threw the cloak around his shoulders once more, submitting himself to whatever fate awaited him.

  



	5. Pretty Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As news of Snape's return breaks out, Dolohov reports his failure to his master. 
> 
> Snape and McGonagall reconnect.

  
**_SNAPE LIVES! HERO OF HOGWARTS RETURNS_ **

**_  
_ **

  
Dolohov tightens his grip around the copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , the sound of crinkling paper oddly satisfying. No sooner has he finished the job, crumpling it up and tossing it onto the floor, than a disembodied voice calls out an ethereal greeting.

  


  
"You have failed me. Failed the cause."

  


  
The dark wizard winces in spite of himself. "I was taken by surprise. That bastard Potter -"

  


  
"Should not have given you the trouble that he did, yet here we are. Tell me, Antonin: did you want to be caught? You certainly made sure that your presence was not easily explained. Muggles are naturally inquisitive. I only just managed to convince their constable that you were nothing more than a disgruntled student of Snape's."

  


  
"I'm sorry."

  


  
The voice became more present, sounding as though it were coming from a source within the darkened room rather than an otherworldly voice calling to him from some other plane of existence. Revealing its owner, Dolohov's mouth hung slack. He recovered his bearings only as the woman walked to where Lord Voldemort once sat at the head of the long table, easing her lithe body into the ornate wooden chair. "Failure is not an option. Do you not think that I myself haven't had to cover my tracks? There are no lengths to which I wound not go to ensure that our mutual goals are satisfied. That you _allowed_ Potter to get away, that you _allowed_ Snape to escape with him, makes me question your loyalty with no small amount of skepticism."

  


  
Dolohov was not disloyal. He had proven himself through his abilities time and again, making himself an indispensable part of Voldemort's machine. Now that the dark lord was gone, there was no one to whom he had to prove himself - including _her_. Especially her.

  


  
"I should greet you with the same skepticism. Is it not true that you avoided rotted in Azkaban by denouncing Blood Purity?"

  


  
The stately blonde shrugs, the fine material of her clothing shimmering with the movement despite the shroud of darkness in which they stood. "We make sacrifices. Integrity was never valuable, was never necessary to my family. Our influence and wealth were more than enough."

  


  
"And now?"

  


  
"We are shadows of what we were. The wizarding world has accepted that there can be a duality, a balance of pure and impure blood. I am disinclined to believe this myself, although my son and husband have now fallen in line with this notion. I refuse. I go my own way, now."

  


  
"You are not as powerful as Voldemort. Nor am I. Why seek to bring the Death Eaters back together if our leader is gone?"

  


  
"That's where you're wrong. We are strong together; our message, our mission, remains as vital as it was when Voldemort sat at the head of this table. Except now, we stand to lose so much if the Half-Blood Prince is allowed to lead the charge against our purity and way of life. Do you understand?"

  


  
"Snape must die. I know this. Why do you think I went to the Cotswolds? You requested that I go, so I did. I'm not here to prove to you what I have already when Voldemort was our leader."

  


  
The woman shook her head. "No, no; you do not understand the scope of what must happen. This goes beyond what Voldemort had set forth. They must all die, dear Antonin, and Severus Snape must take his rightful place as Voldemort's heir apparent." Her voice is like honeyed milk, washing over him like the tingling tendrils of a love spell. For all he knows, the vixen could be trying to seduce him with a magic he isn't readily able to identify. He allows it, invisible hands caressing him and pushing him forward.

  


  
She was beautiful, though perhaps this is why he allowed her the thinly-veiled jabs at his ability and character. When Voldemort kept that bootlicking sod Wormtail close at hand, the man seemed to only have eyes and ears for whatever the Dark Lord said. He found himself lulled into a similar complacency with her, although he was lead by something stronger than just a desire to serve the banner of blood purity. His head swam uncomfortably, as if under the influence of some kind of muggle drug. The woman before him schooled an intense gaze through unnaturally blue eyes.

  


  
"You doubt me?"

  


  
"No, I do not. I question. Questioning is not doubting. Questions lead to knowledge, and knowledge leads to victory."

  


  
"Perhaps you aren't quite such a brute. Lucius did commend you on your dueling ability, and I see that comes from a keen mind."

  


  
Dolohov shrugs. "His word means almost as much to me as Snape's does." The ease with which Narcissa thrust her wand uncomfortably close to his neck was almost enough for him to amend that statement.

  


  
"You will not speak of my husband that way."

  


  
Antonin recoils. "He may as well be one of them, now. Don't deny it."

  


  
Narcissa lowers her wand, but her message is clear. "Men are fickle; and they say that we are the ones who are the weaker sex. I know that he has changed his mind only to avoid Azkaban; but he could be persuaded, with Snape in our number once again."

  


  
The only wizard who exceeded his abilities was Snape - and perhaps Narcissa at this point, although she wasn't half the witch Bellatrix had been. Still; something was different about her. With the unseen currents of authority and complete seduction rolling around and between them, Dolohov is aware for the first time that perhaps this newfound power Narcissa possesses is for the purpose of enthralling him.

  


  
And Narcissa is a beautiful woman. Reluctantly, he allows it - whatever it is - and she brings her lips to Antonin's ear. He can feel their unfair plumpness, the warmth of her encapsulating him as she whispers.

  


  
"He left a part of himself in me."

  


  
"Wouldn't that make you a horcrux?"

  


  
"No, Dolohov; don't be daft." Her long, slender fingers skirt her flat abdomen. "No; it was something much greater than that."

  


  
He turns to behold her; around her irises is a ring of red. "You bore his child? H-h-how?"

  


  
"An ancient practice: _ostium peperit_. You've heard of it, I imagine."

  


  
He shakes his head, combing his memory for the meaning of the obviously Latin words. "Poison? Venom?"

  


  
"Yes. 'Venom birth', literally translated. While Voldemort was not able to conceive a child in the traditional way, he used a proxy. It was a contingent to ensure that his line would endure even in the highly unlikely event that he was unable to kill Harry Potter."

  


  
Dolohov doesn't need to consider this for very long. Nagini had clearly been the proxy; he elects not to question whatever dark deeds had to be done in order to conceive and carry Voldemort's spawn. It did nothing to dissuade him from the intimate feelings he himself was experiencing toward Narcissa; this was obviously something hopelessly ancient and likely banned.

  


  
Desperate times and desperate measures, and all that.

  


  
"Where is the child?"

  


  
"He lives with my husband, who acts as his guardian and caretaker. He has the potential to become a strong right hand to the Half-Blood Prince, and eventually usurp him to continue his father's work. But he cannot be entrusted with such a responsibility at just two years of age; he needs a teacher. That's where Snape comes in. With him to guide and groom Anders, his potential will grow to be as limitless as his father's - and beyond." She takes a breath, and captures Dolohov's earlobe in between her lips. He keens against her, the heady energies surrounding them binding their intentions and bodies together. "I know that you will not fail me again."

  


  
All he can do is nod. As he turns to leave, he wonders if Wormtail was ever thus seduced. He suddenly doesn't think it matters. As long as Voldemort's mission continues to live, so shall he serve whatever master wishes to further those designs.

  


  
In his eyes is a ferocity that takes Narcissa's breath away. "I will not fail you."

  


  
****

* * *

**  
**

  
The hour is chimed loudly and thrice from the grandfather clock she inherited from her father, although it does not wake her. Her consciousness skirts the edge of awareness and sleep, the crisp breeze of the earliest strains of autumn floating through her window and caressing her cheek. Moonlight is strained through sheer curtains, bathing the room in a glow that can only be described as celestial. Her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the darkness. Something is there in the room with her, but a cursory search from the relative safety of her bed (it's like being a child again, believing that any closet monster can be staved off with a heavy duvet and two eyes squeezed tightly shut) does not produce signs of an intruder.

  


  
He waits, clinging to the shadows, for another hour of agony on his travel-weary feet before the light shifts enough to reveal him. He continues to stand, a silent monolith, perhaps a protector. A friend. He doesn't know anymore; he doesn't know on what side of that line he falls, refugee though he is, deserter though he is. When her eyes open again, she seems him immediately and jerks awake, sitting bolt upright. Early morning light falls around her shoulders; she is his antithesis, long graying hair falling around a crisp white nightgown. The heavy duvet is pulled up and over her chest out of modesty, certainly, but also out of fear. He can taste it in the air, and wishes it weren't so.

  


  
"You - I can't believe it." Her voice croaks passed the burden of sleep and thirst. Snape does not move.

  


  
"I should have expected that you wouldn't be able to get anywhere in the daytime. Your name is all over _The Daily Prophet_." She swings her legs over the bed with her back to Snape, donning a heavy sleeping robe and throwing her hair into a messy bun. She's never looked so utterly fallible, so completely human. Snape wonders if this is how she's always been; a quiet picture of strength, of vitality. He wonders how he missed it.

  


  
McGonagall shakes her head. "I should have remembered that you cannot speak." Snape raises his wand; on the great mirror against the wall, words form in a magical mist. _You have nothing for which an apology is owed. It is a detail that many have not been able to remember._

  


  
"Indeed. Why are you here?" It isn't sardonic or uncivil; she honestly wishes to know, and Snape could have easily chanced the probing questions and stopping every ten feet for a photograph during the daytime. He likely should have done that, but in the last few days he has been made aware of the fact that he has done many things he shouldn't have. The mirror fills with text.

  


  
_Protection._

  


  
McGonagall wraps the robe tighter around her. "I meant why are you here at Hogwarts? If you wanted to leave this life, why return even for sentimental reasons?"

  


  
That is not an easily answered question. He had been discharged from the care of the Ministry after a cursory physical examination and with a personal auror assigned to him - Harry Potter, who was off delivering a report to Robards and wouldn't be able to rendezvous with him until hours later. This had given him time to kill, and old habits died hard.

  


  
_It is for reasons of unfinished business that I am here. Namely, that I owe you an apology._

__  


  
McGonagall's infamous sternness is on full display, now. He feels utterly cut down to size under her gaze. "Whatever for, Severus? That's all in the past. You were doing a job, as were we all. I harbor no ill-will toward you. Please, do sit." He shakes his head to decline the invitation as the mirror is erased and new words replace the old ones.

  


  
_For usurping you. For Obliviating you when you drained your life force to save me. For being dishonest at the start. There are so many things; take your pick. Tears prick the corners of his eyes; he is grateful that there are still shadows enough to hide them._

  
"I saved you?"

  


  
_Yes. In the Shrieking Shack, after Potter left. You revived me enough so that I could safely escape, and agreed to let me live in anonymity. This is why I Obliviated that memory._

__  


  
McGonagall sits down, thinking. She would have certainly understood his need for discretion, and the valuable asset he would be were he to remain alive. But why leave Hogwarts? Why turn his back on them, potentially when they needed him most? These questions had plagued her for years, had caused no end of recent tumult in her private meditations, and now she wanted answers. Squaring her slight shoulders, she looks up at Snape. Only then does she see the outline of a scar across his neck, the hair he has since cut and now wears styled and clean. He's wearing dark jeans, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a thoroughly frayed heavy-duty canvas coat. He looks like a completely different person; although why shouldn't he, living among muggles and becoming quite a different man?

  


  
"What were you running from?" She asks the darkness more than she asks him, not expecting an answer. He recognizes that this is perhaps not the question she wanted to ask, but he came prepared to give his truth. Perhaps he wouldn't have done this years ago, but he was ready now.

  


  
_The memories I gave to Potter were ones I heavily altered. I didn't want him to know about Albus, the truth of why I killed him, and the secrets he harbored about me. The secrets we kept for one another._  


  
McGonagall had known that there were personal details which he told no one. Having counted him as one of her closest friends for well over a quarter of a century, there were times that this bothered her - but she knew that there was a reason.

  


  
"And are you prepared to tell me those things now, Severus?" She says his name like a prayer. Snape sucks in a breath.

  


  
_Albus was gay, and he was dying. Obviously those things aren't mutually inclusive; the reason we were so close, and the reason he protected me to the extent that he did, is because I am gay as well. It was not Lily Potter that captured my heart, although she was indescribably dear to me; it was James Potter whose affection I wanted. He discovered this, and that's what drove a wedge between Lily and I. It is because of my carelessness that Lily and James were killed. It was my selfishness that placed Potter in the position in which he found himself. I hated him for how much like his father he was, and lauded him for his similarities to Lily. He kept this secret. He told me to tell Potter that it was his mother I loved, to make it easier._  


  
"He shouldn't have ever put you in that situation if he thought for a second that you might live. Albus, as you know, could be wildly shortsighted. I'm so sorry, Severus."

  


  
_It's why I altered the memories, and it's part of why I agreed to kill Albus. He was the only person alive who knew my secret. Only he knew the extent - how I needed to protect Potter in order to satisfy that guilt. How it ate me alive. It still eats me alive, Minerva. It's why I left._

__  


  
The older woman was openly weeping. "I wish I had known, Severus. I could have helped you, done something. Perhaps convinced Albus not to do what he did."

  


  
_He was cursed. I could not save him, which means no one else could have saved him. He was content to let his secrets die with him, as was I. But here I stand, and my secrets have endured along with the pain. Perhaps death would have been the easier of the two._

__  


  
"Albus would tell you that what is easy is not always what is right, and I would be inclined to agree. There is a reason, Severus, that you came back to us. Where you and I are concerned, all that is wrong has become right. It has been right for a very long time. I forgave you before you even raised your wand against me; that's what love _is_. Perhaps you have forgotten; perhaps you never knew. I would submit that it's likely the latter."

  


  
Her ability to discern and name a situation or person for what it is and who they are had never ceased to amaze Snape. He regards her coolly, in the detached way he always has on the outside while he suffers on the inside. She probably knows that, too.

  


  
_I am sorry. For everything. For all of it._

__  


  
McGonagall's bony hand waves him away. "You have nothing to be sorry for anymore, Severus. You needed to leave this place behind to save yourself. Not a one of us could question that in good faith. Even so, I welcome you back now with open arms - for however long you choose to stay."

  


  
He doesn't bother telling her that he must, nor that Potter is more or less his guardian. Once the threat is gone, whatever that is discovered to be, he will likely leave again - but right now, standing in the castle he eventually considered his home, it is difficult not to see the reasons he ought to stay. He offers nothing but a nod, a silent acknowledgment of her position, and departs. She remains seated, looking up at him with eyes that are increasingly glassy as dawn breaks through the window beyond.

  


  
The sunrise is as plaintive as the words that go unspoken. He is simultaneously relieved and regretful to quit her company. He vows that he will return, to perhaps offer grander explanations; but for now, they are both sated.

  


  
His fingertips find the scar on his neck, glaringly obvious. When he disapperates, the sadness in McGonagall's face remains burned in his vision. When he finds himself again a half second later, standing alone amid the illumined dust motes of Snape Manor, he closes his eyes to quell the sob that he cannot voice.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I scrapped the first go at this chapter because I wasn't happy with it. I hope this is better, and I apologize if any of your lovely comments disappeared along with the first iteration of this chapter!  
> 2\. The literal translation for the completely made-up and non-canon ritual Narcissa used to conceive Voldemort's son is 'venom birth'. I'll add tags to reflect that f*ckery.


	6. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The report for Severus Snape's Ministry physical return, and they are not what Harry expected. When Severus learns the truth of his condition, he sees an opportunity to set the record straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEEEEYYYYYY. Long time no see. 
> 
> So, I moved to a new house and got a new job, so I've been busy. I've had some family stuff go down as well, and to be honest - the fount of inspiration had dried up with this fic, but I cooked up some new ideas over the weekend and things will move along at a much faster pace.

  
Severus didn't purchase his private residence with the intention of spending a formidable amount of time there, but he saw the beauty in having made that decision so many years ago now. He had acquired the home at Albus' behest - he had been all twinkling eyes and a single cryptic admission: _"A man must have a place to escape"._ He hadn't realized how prophetic those words would become.

  


  
Now he was sitting on the stone of the veranda which lead out into the garden, his black-leather clad feet dangling over the edge. The mid-day autumn sun was in his eyes, but he turns his face to receive its warmth - not much of a balm for an otherwise crisp day, the prelude to winter cutting through his jacket. The lazy light illumines the leaves still clinging to the surrounding alder trees, casting a golden glow on the now-manicured grass below. House elves had come and gone. Potter had shuttled them out with the veracity of a Slytherin - fitting, but not characteristic. If he hadn't known the boy better, he would have thought it a tad protective. He was only doing his job.

  


  
Severus recalled that he had a garden growing up, although it was far smaller than that of his manor. Still, he had crawled into an alder and cried when he realized that he couldn't get down. He leans back further, the sun warming his cheeks, as he remembers the softness of his mother's hands as she reached to liberate him of both his predicament and his shame. He was never physically strong - a fact his father drove into him mercilessly and loudly detested in his son - and now he feels even more powerless than he had when he was young. The crucial difference is that Potter never lets on that it's a chore. It's a job. Potter is doing a job.

  


  
He's speaking to someone on the phone inside. Although he can't hear the words, he can hear a certain intensity. He tries to close his eyes and go back to the daydream of his mother, but the voracity of the conversation taking place several feet away has succeeded in tearing him from the memory. It fades around the edges; his mother's voice, the way her arms encircled her young son, until it is gone completely. Severus looks out at the garden again, searching among the trees for a name to assign the grief he's experiencing.

  


  
Potter barrels out of the French doors, slamming one of them against the stone edifice of the house behind it. Severus flinches before he can stop himself; Potter stands, mouth slightly agape, and regards the other man. "'m sorry, I was on the phone with Healer Abbott. The results of your physical have been compiled into a report. She's on her way here; Hermione too."

He delivers this news as a news anchor would report a robbery; detached, unaffected. Severus feels himself blanching again, grasping his coat and pulling it around him. He removes his wand and writes on the stone.

  


  
_I take it the results aren't what you expected._  


  
Potter fishes a cigarette out of his own jacket pocket and lights it with a grace that can only be attributed to frequency. Severus finds that the smell of stale tobacco and something vaguely musky, though not unpleasant, follows Potter. He imagines it's the boy's natural fragrance, although the cigarettes don't help. He withstands the habit because it does seem to truly calm Potter, if only for a moment. He takes a drag, inhaling slowly, and exhaling with a slight part between his lips. Severus watches this display, a curious thought streaking by before he has the time to pin it down, followed by something else he doesn't care enough at the moment to name.

  


  
"You could say that. Hannah - Healer Abbott - will explain it better than I can, but the gist is that there is no medical reason for why you can't speak. And if that's the case - whomever is responsible did this to ensure that you can't cast to protect yourself."

  


  
Severus thinks for a moment before replying. _I am not completely ignorant. The thought occurred to me that this was a magical affliction; I suppose I wanted to live in a certain amount of ignorance._

  


  
Potter takes another drag, now looking out over the garden himself. "Did you know that they would come after you?" he asks, not looking at Snape. Eyes straight ahead.

  


  
_Yes and no. I did not consider that the Death Eaters would be organized enough to launch efforts to vilify me for my treachery. I knew that a few of them had survived, of course, but without the Dark Lord it seemed unlikely that they would come out of hiding just for me._  


  
"See, that's what I find difficult to believe. It seems as if the decision to make you mute was deliberate; payback for being a double agent."

  


  
_Voldemort did not think that you would secure victory over him. Whatever Nagini did was likely meant to be punctuation; nothing more._

_  
_

  
"Something about this doesn't feel right." Potter is about to elaborate further, but the French doors open again and both men turn to see Hermione, arms laden with books, bursting out onto the veranda. She drops her not inconsiderable amount of volumes, whips around, and grabs Harry's cigarette and stomps on it before he can say a word.

  


  
"You're lucky I got here when I did. There's been a leak; Robards contained it before any information about Snape's location got out, but the damage has been done. I only barely recovered the report from Hannah; I thought she was behind me in the flu, but -"

  


  
A portkey portal opens, and out spills a bedraggled-looking Hannah Abbott. Potter helps the young woman to her feet, who wastes no time becoming starstruck. Severus rolls his eyes.

  


  
"H-Harry Potter? Gods above, what a surprise, I -"

  


  
"I wish we had more time" Potter says, a point to the statement that only Severus seems to notice "but we need to discuss what just happened. How bad is it?"

  


  
"Not so bad that his records aren't safe." Abbott removes a file folder from her coat, which Potter takes and thumbs through. "It's all there. No copies were made, and his whereabouts are certainly being questioned, but the best places to hide are the most obvious ones."

  


  
_A fair point_ Severus writes. _We should retire indoors to discuss this further. I am eager to learn about the findings of my physical examination._

  


  
Seated around the dining room table, Abbott clasps her hands together and, the way any Healer would, begins to methodically detail the results contained in the folio. "This is highly irregular; unprecedented, in fact. I was among those chosen to perform autopsies on those who had been slain by Nagini, and the bites were all the same. Engorged with inflammation, necrotic tissue spreading from the wound itself to other areas of the body with a speed unlike any other serpent, the venom thrice as potent as that of a King Cobra. The physiological results of a single bite alone would be devastating, but Professor Snape shows none of those signs - and he is obviously still living."

  


  
Hermione nods. "But what about his throat? Was he not bitten?"

  


  
"He was" Abbot confirms softly, "but he was not envenomated. There is no evidence of necrotic tissue or any neurological damage to the throat. The integrity of his vocal folds leave much to be desired, but that is almost solely exclusive to disuse. There is no physical reason why Professor Snape cannot speak, although the injury masked itself as a far more serious affliction. This is why the muggles who examined him were unable to help."

  


  
Potter has since lit another cigarette, much to Severus' dismay. "What does this mean, then? He can't cast, Hannah, and I have a feeling that what happened in the Cotswolds is just the beginning."

  


  
"My official conclusion is that Severus Snape has been cursed. The curse was transported by Nagini, delivered in a bite, and has been slowly building in both intensity and severity for the last two years. It is not meant to kill him; rather, whatever curse this is was created expressly to make him suffer."

  


  
Hermione and Harry trade a look of utter defeat. Abbott continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "I hope you find who did this, Harry, and I hope you destroy them the way you destroyed Voldemort. I hope you make them pay."

  


  
It occurs to Severus that Abbott isn't referring to the injustice of his having been cursed. The retribution she calls for is on behalf of Hogwarts; because of their lost innocence, and all the ways that their time at the school was tainted because of Voldemort and the war. Potter seems to read between the lines, and Severus watches that old, indulgent guilt settle into the young man's shoulders. He looks like a child again, like a little boy trapped in a conflict he doesn't entirely understand but must face as though he does. For his part, Severus watches this unfold and a familiar annoyance - directed primarily toward Potter - keeps him from engaging overly much.

  


  
He writes on the surface of the table, the scrolling letters faster to form than usual. He has noticed that the speed depends on his mood; at least he can still somewhat communicate inflection and urgency. _Protective wards will be necessary; this home has not been warded in over three years. Miss Granger, please do so. I wish to speak with Potter and Healer Abbott alone._

_  
_

  
If the red-headed witch is offended by this, she thankfully doesn't show it. Grateful for something to do, she puts her hand on Potter's shoulder before she rises to leave. He nods at her, as though to give her permission - Severus finds that it is Potter who is calling the shots almost exclusively. Even Granger is allowing him this ability to be completely in control, where before he depended on both Granger and Weasley with an alarming codependency.

  


  
_I am not able to fight against any usurper that would come here._ The words scrawl slowly this time. Potter seems to recognize what this denotes, snuffs out his cigarette, and leans forward on his elbows.

  


  
"I'm not going anywhere" comes his quiet reply. "Robards made it clear that I am to stay here. Until this is over, you are the top priority of the auror department."

  


  
Severus only manages to nod. Something happens in the space between them then; Potter looks mature for once, divested of his status as a boy hero who defeated Voldemort in single combat. The former professor's mind wanders back to a certain accord he had struck with Dumbledore; this unspoken alliance was identical. Severus shivers.

  


  
"Where do we go from here?" Abbott wants to help; as a lifelong Hufflepuff, her abilities toward change may not be obvious - but her desire to aid their cause is pleasant. Potter smiles.

  


  
"I think your work in this is done for now, but anything you can do to dissuade people at the Ministry from asking too many questions would be helpful. We've already inadvertently drawn attention to the fact that Snape is alive; it won't take Dolohov and whoever he's working for much longer before they find out where he is. The wards Hermione is placing are strong and will shield us long enough to make a plan."

  


  
Abbott nods slowly. "Then I will leave you all to it. Thank you for having me; it really is beautiful here. That must make it easier."

  


  
Potter's smile fades, but his eyes have taken on the fractal dance Albus' were known for. The appearance of mirth is heartening, even if the news they just received complicates things more than any of them realize at the moment. Severus sits back, offering an upturned mouth - as close as he can get to gratitude. Abbott uses a portkey similar to Potter's - a pen, although far less ornate than his. She is gone instantly, after one final (and hesitant) wave in Severus' direction.

  


  
It takes them a moment to get their bearings once they are well and truly alone. If Granger does her job well, it will take her most of the afternoon to sufficiently ward the manor. Potter looks as if he's about to crawl out of his skin.

  


  
"I should go help her." Snape doesn't make a move to acknowledge Potter, mostly because he can't. Whatever was born between them still hangs in the air, precariously unnamed. A fire crackles behind them; Severus hadn't even noticed it before. Potter had been cold before coming out on to the veranda; somehow, this knowledge only makes their shared camaraderie increasingly uncomfortable.

  


  
_You would only get in her way. You know how she is when a task is laid before her. Let her have this time; it will soothe her._

_  
_

  
"You've changed." There are two syllables; two lonely words in a sea of confusion and fear among them just moments before, crashing against a counterpoint of still more maturity Potter hasn't been capable of before this moment. Perhaps it's because they have a rare moment of no movement; perhaps it's because he can see it now, as Potter is doing his job as an auror and Severus had never observed the boy as a professional before now. He had seen glimpses of the sort of man he was when they had first arrived from the Cotswolds, but the harsh words spoken by Hermione had redirected that attention. Busy elsewhere, the last barrier between them had been unceremoniously torn down. Severus flips through a number of possible responses.

  


  
_War is the great equalizer. What you are experiencing is the emotional upheaval from sharing a common goal; this happened during your tenure as a student at Hogwarts. It happened between myself, and Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. It is normal, and it will pass. Revelations made now are a direct result of needing a place to put those emotions._  


  
"How clinical."

  


  
_If I am cold, it is not because I am ungrateful._

_  
_

  
"Then what would you call it?"

  


  
_Survival. I can ill afford to examine my own evolution as an individual; complacency and self-congratulatory recognition will distract us from what is at stake._

_  
_

  
Potter lights another cigarette. Severus can feel his lips move to a thin, almost imperceptible line.

  


  
_That is a truly abhorrent habit. I would respectfully ask that you cut down your intake while you reside in my home._

_  
_

  
Potter's eyes sweep the floor. "I'm sorry. I just - you have to understand how - to see you again, it's -"

  


  
_Jarring._  


  
His face lights up. "Yes" he moans on a sigh. "Yes. Jarring. And you have changed. Hermione was hard on you when you arrived, and I know she feels bad. I'm sure she'll say something to you. She doesn't understand."

  


  
_You are both still young, although your position allows you to be more empathetic to my situation than she. I do not hold it against her. No apology is necessary._

_  
_

  
Potter rises, taking his leave. "I'll finish this outside and help Hermione." Severus locks eyes with Potter then, finding something he too could comment on regarding change and the passage of time. He refrains.

  


  
_Thank you, Mr. Potter._

_  
_

  
It is with great reluctance that Potter leaves, and it is with a great, curious heave of his shoulders that Severus rises to go take refuge from his thoughts, now bouncing off of one another with reckless abandon, in the library.

  


  


* * *

****

  


  
It is well into the evening when Harry and Hermione finish. As they work, he tells her about Hannah's report.

  


  
"Nagini was obviously acting as a vessel for Voldemort. He had to face you, or I'm certain he would have gone to the Shrieking Shack himself to exact his own revenge. Snape likely wouldn't be alive if that were the case."

  


  
"But what is the purpose of simply biting him? The bite did no physical damage -" Hermione presses her forefinger against Harry's lips. Her eyes widen with discovery, the same kind of academic ecstasy she often achieved during their years as students.

  


  
"No. No, it had nothing to do with that. Voldemort sent Nagini to exact his revenge, yes, but the bite was simply a transfer of something _into_ Snape. The curse was created by the Dark Lord, given to Nagini to exact, and passed through the bite."

  


  
"She was one of his horcruxes, and then Neville destroyed her."

  


  
Hermione finishes the last of the intricate lattice of the final ward. Harry watches her coolly, but steels himself. "The only two beings in the world who knew what that curse was are dead. How do you expect us to help him, exactly? I can't watch over him forever. Robards thinks that this is somehow going to be easy, but with what Hannah told us -"

  


  
"Harry, there are other ways" she says, a bit too dark for his liking. "Who do we know that was close to the Death Eaters, but not one himself?"

  


  
"No. You have got to be kidding me, 'mione, he's still a bloody -"

  


  
_"Harry._ He is not that boy anymore. He's a man, just like you are, and believe me when I say that he wants to make it right."

  


  
Draco Malfoy. A name Harry hadn't wanted to hear any time soon, but which was admittedly the only sensible person from whom to seek help. Having been as close to Voldemort as he was, it was likely that he would know about Nagini's capabilities - and what, exactly, Voldemort himself thought of Snape's betrayal. It wouldn't solve the mystery of the man's injuries, but it would point them in the right direction.

  


  
"I suppose you want to go speak with him now."

  


  
"Time is essential, but it's probably not a good idea to leave him here." Hermione jerks her head back in the direction of the manor and their silent professor. "I don't feel comfortable leaving him. Draco will have to come here - and don't worry, I've already sent him a raven."

  


  
Harry had heard of some wizards and witches utilizing ravens; it had become more popular to do so both during and after the war, as lingering paranoia gripped those who remembered their dismembered owls unceremoniously deposited on doorsteps and, in one more memorable instance, exploded in the middle of Hogwarts' Great Hall.

  


  
"I will interrogate him."

  


  
"No you won't, Harry. You will have a discussion with him and look for solutions; you will collaborate. I - ran into him not long ago. He works at Gringotts, dating Astoria Greengrass rather seriously. The old Draco you knew is gone and dead, along with every other convention we clung to when we were younger. Two years can create a world of difference, Harry, and it has with Malfoy. Give him a chance."

  


  
It's Harry's turn to cast his gaze wistfully over what has turned into a magnificent autumnal sunset. The temperature has dropped and their cheeks are red from being outdoors setting the wards and charms around the manor, but he hasn't particularly felt cold until now. He fights the urge to light another cigarette and promptly loses. Hermione eyes him reproachfully but doesn't say anything.

  


  
"Fine. We'll have a discussion. But I will throw him out if even thinks about reverting back to his old self."

  


  
They begin to walk back toward the sprawling house. "He was living in squalor compared to this. I'd no idea he had a private residence apart from the dungeons."

  


  
"I'm learning that perhaps there is more to Snape than I realized. I am sorry for the way I spoke to him when he first arrived."

  


  
"He knows" Harry says, smiling. Hermione swats him on the shoulder. "Thank you. I don't want him to think that I don't feel badly, so when the time's right I'll tell him myself. Good looking out."

  


  
Harry takes a long, languid drag of his cigarette. "I told him that he had changed. He was almost congenial in there; and I know I haven't been on my best game since this whole thing happened. It's like he can sense that I'm trying. He would have mocked me in the past, but now he doesn't."

  


  
"You've grown up. We all have. We had to; look around you. The footprint of what Voldemort created is still as clear as it ever was. Something is happening; something Snape is directly involved in. We have to protect him, but more than that, we have to protect ourselves. Maturity is often precluded by loss. We lost almost everything once; I won't risk it again."

  


  
Harry ponders this. If it came down to his life over Snape's, he would gladly lay his life down for the man who had sacrificed so much to protect him. Hermione seems to read his mind.

  


  
"Harry" she says gently, lowering the hand that holds the cigarette as gingerly as she can "you can't. I know what you're thinking. We don't know what's going to happen. It may not come to fighting." The sun sets against their backs; Harry basks in the temporary respite of the privacy of their conversation. The haunting, plaintive call of a loon breaks the silence. He knows that bloodshed will likely be involved; dark wizards are generally not going down without a fight, but 

  


  
"He isn't helpless, Harry. It may seem like that now, but he won't be passive. Not when he's lived through so much worse."

  


  
"Snape is not the man we knew. That much is clear, but what if he doesn't want to fight anymore? What if he truly does want to leave this world behind?"

  


  
"He can't" she says simply. "As long as there are those who still act in Voldemort's name, he will never find peace. But if that day comes and he is able to live out his days, he should be able to do so at his discretion and according to what he wants."

  


  
This doesn't sit well with Harry for reasons he can't recognize. As they walk back into the manor, a tall, slender figure emerges from the hallway to their immediate left. Alarmed by the sudden movement, Harry draws his wand - but it doesn't take long before the shadows of the coming evening release Draco Malfoy, his arms raised in supplication.

  


  
"Ah, Draco" Harry manages lamely. "I'm sorry, it's just that -"

  


  
"The Ministry is on high alert right now. I don't blame you. Hello, Hermione." He offers a hand to his old rival, and she takes it after a split second's hesitation. Some habits are harder to break.

  


  
"We called you here" Hermione continues after clearing her throat "because you are the only person to whom we have access who might have insight into Nagini. How she worked, what her capabilities were. Aside from the obvious, of course."

  


  
Draco smiles wanly. "I can help. Listen, before we begin; Harry. Harry, I am so sorry." The words are muted; the world around them seems to swirl in a panoply of colors and sensation. Harry acknowledges the apology with a curt nod, but not out of disbelief or distrust. Draco is a man now, as he is, and while too much damage has been done to forge a friendship, the Slytherin recognizes the opportunity to make things right in another way. He feels tears prick the corners of his eyes.

  


  
"Thank you, Malfoy. I appreciate you coming here." He leads them back into the kitchens and they sit as they had with Hannah Abbott. Harry tires of the sitting; he aches to act, but he knows that nothing can be done until they know more. It takes everything in him not to fall back on the old habit of pulling at his fringe.

  


  
"Nagini wasn't just a horcrux; she was certainly linked to Voldemort telepathically as all horcruxes, but he also imbued her with his own consciousness. She acted as his loyal pet because she was literally an extension of the man himself; not just his soul, his entire being."

  


  
Hermione nods. "That would make sense. Professor Snape is cursed, and if it didn't come from Voldemort, it had to have been Nagini. She was the last being to see him before he left the Shrieking Shack, and it was clear that Voldemort had a vendetta."

  


  
Draco's face falls. "I can't believe he's alive. All this time, I had a million things I wanted to say - a million apologies, a million promises to make it right. He probably hates me."

  


  
_Stop that incessant whining this instant. I will not tolerate self-flagellation from you, Mr. Malfoy. You have outgrown it._  


  
When the words appear on the table, Malfoy jumps out of his seat. His eyes, weary but fiery with shock and anger, fall to Harry first; but when Severus emerges from behind Hermione and Harry, Draco begins to weep openly.

  


  
"Sir, I will do whatever I can to -"

  


  
The writing speeds up at a breakneck pace. _I will not repeat myself. Your actions are directly linked to not only my current circumstances, but Mr. Potter's and Ms. Granger's as well. They have been asked to sacrifice more than you understand, and they do so willingly because they know that it is the right thing to do. They have integrity. Can you say the same, Mr. Malfoy?_  


  
Draco sits back down, his eyes still murky with tears but his jaw is set in defiance - Harry observes that they are all falling back on old habits to endure the current discussion. "I am sorry. I wish I had made different choices. I was blind; and I still am in many ways, but I will do everything I can to help you now."

  


  
_If I detect treachery, I will not hesitate to use more barbaric methods to reward you for your disloyalty._

_  
_

  
"I understand."

  


  
_Good._ As the last word fades from the table, Hermione drops the dossier containing Severus' records on top of it; the man himself sits down next to Draco, who is visibly uncomfortable. "What we know so far is that Nagini did not envenomate Professor Snape. There is no medical reason why he is unable to speak; do you have any ideas, Draco?"

  


  
"Sometimes, Voldemort would use Nagini as a proxy. I believe that's likely what happened in this case."

  


  
"Would there be any reason why he wouldn't have ordered Nagini to kill Professor Snape rather than simply kill him?"

  


  
Draco steadies himself, taking a deep breath. He casts a brief, furtive glance at Severus before continuing. For his part, Severus remains stoic. "I overheard him talking, sometimes. Late at night when everyone else was either gone on reconnaissance or sleeping. I never knew who he was speaking to, although I got as close as I could without him knowing. He talked about an heir; a child that he would sire to continue his work. He told this person that Nagini would aid in this when the time was right, as he was unable to do so himself. He also mentioned that there were those who would betray him; but that's not new information."

  


  
Potter parts his lips and nearly gets a cigarette between them before he meets Severus' eye and removes it, placing it gingerly on the table. "Nagini has the ability to act as a proxy in every way; this must also mean that she was capable of casting."

  


  
"Regardless, it's dark magic. It doesn't matter who proffered it; just that it occurred and that Voldemort was its creator. It isn't a curse I've ever seen" Hermione adds hurriedly "but that doesn't mean that we cannot find a cure."

  


  
_Dark magic can be quite arcane; even Albus Dumbledore's knowledge of the dark arts was sorely lacking. There are some curses so old that their remedies are lost to time. Did you not mention that Mr. Weasley is in Germany tracking a coven seeking to bring back Voldemort?_

_  
_

  
"Yes" Draco breathes. "Merlin, I can't believe I missed that. There is a coven of witches in Berlin who are preparing for some kind of second coming of Voldemort, but it isn't him - it's his heir." Hermione begins flipping through the books she had brought with her when she arrived to the manor, finally landing on a page that contained what she wanted and slamming her palm on the page.

  


  
"Venom birth. Venenum aspidum nativitatis - and there's more. Venenum aspidum silentium."

  


  
"What does all of that mean? Where does it come from?"

  


  
"You would know, Harry, that the ability to speak Parseltongue is the mark of a dark wizard. You inherited that ability from Voldemort."

  


  
_'Silentium' denotes that this is a curse that has been used before. Where did you find those books, Ms. Granger?_

  


  
Hermioned swallows hard. "Hogwarts' library. I - I stole them last night. They were locked by several charms; recent ones, from what I can tell."

  


  
"Someone knew we were coming" Harry mumbles. "They probably know we're here right now." He gets up and crosses over to the window, scanning the darkness. "It's a good thing we put up those wards."

  


  
Hermione ignores him, continuing to read. "The venom-birth is a trait passed down from Salazar Slytherin, the same with Parseltongue. There is a whole host of abilities that Slytherins have" she glares at Draco, who visibly shrinks "but even in that case, they're quite rare. It's just as it sounds; nativitatis - natal, and silentium: silence."

  


  
Harry feels his impatience rising at a rate impossible to regulate. "But _why_ , 'Mione? Why is this important, and what does it have to do with Professor Snape?"

  


  
Draco shifts his weight. "I think I may know. Slytherins have an innate ability toward serpent-like traits; our cunning, our ability to wait for our prey - it all centers around characteristics that we share with serpents. Constriction, venom, silence, and - reproduction. Voldemort wanted to ensure that his mission was continued. He simply bade Nagini to make sure that happened, and Severus' silence was the key."

  


  
The writing on the table is truculent; Severus hates himself for how this makes him look, but so far the only person to pick up on it is Potter. _It is never that simple, Mr. Malfoy. There are other reasons for why Voldemort did not kill me. In many ways, it is a prison of my own design._

_  
_

  
"We can't discuss this now. Hermione, what else does that book say?" Potter's eyes are flashing intensity and - something else. Severus does not follow the path his thoughts attempt to take him down.

  


  
"These are rites which predate the first wizarding war by several hundred years. If Voldemort bade Nagini to partake in venom birth, he did so because he wanted to perpetuate his line. In many ways" her voice drops to what is almost a whisper "if this is truly happening, and Professor Snape is cursed, it is as if we are right back to where we began when Voldemort was alive. A new heir will come; you said it yourself, Draco. If that happens, there is little to stop them from succeeding in what Voldemort did not."

  


  
Severus considers this. In the two years since the Final Battle, McGonagall had aged beyond her years; many of his colleagues had left teaching all together, unable to pick up the pieces and carry on despite the horrors Voldemort wrought. Likely several students had dropped out rather than returning to the site of the horrors that had occurred; and he found that he could not find it in himself to blame a single one of them, because he had done the same. Not only had he abandoned the wizarding world, but his secrets remained untold; secrets that could help in the discovery of a cure for the curse that had stolen his voice and muted his magical ability. He was sitting prey; he was utterly dependent on Potter and Granger's ability to discover who was behind it all, and stop them.

  


  
Potter catches him being wistful out of the corner of his eye while Granger and Draco discuss the contents of the book. Severus turns and, quite without his own consent, locks eyes with Potter. There is more wisdom behind those eyes than he was willing to see before, but now it is obvious. A thought, this one he can reach out and touch to better examine, re-enters his mind.

  


  
_Marvolo Gaunt's ring. The curse it contained was just as devastating; it is the reason Albus asked me to be the one to end his life, and I was the perfect person to do so. Voldemort knew this. The curse with which I am afflicted is a mockery of the promise I made to Albus._

_  
_

  
Potter is deathly quiet; Granger ceases her page-turning. Draco shifts uncomfortably once more, opening his mouth to speak but no words come forth. Severus waits before he continues.

  


  
_I believe it is best if I consult auror Potter alone at this point. I believe I know why this is happening, and there are details I am only comfortable divulging to him._

_  
_

  
"I can understand that" Hermione admits softly. "Let's go, Draco." The blonde man stands again, offering a final glance toward Severus. He nods to his godson, encouraging him to take his leave.

  


  
_Draco, you will not speak of your past indiscretions again. If we are to work together, we must move forward. All is. . . forgiven._

_  
_

  
"Thank you, sir." Hermione pulls on the sleeve of Draco's shirt, and it is with great reluctance that both of them leave.

  


  
_I have to go back to Hogwarts. When I first arrived, I stole away to see Professor McGonagall; to afford her the clarity and apology I am offering you now._

_  
_

  
"What are you talking about?" Harry Potter waits, the cigarettes on the corner of the table forgotten. Severus finds that his breath comes in shortened, rasping gasps; emotions he had locked away and hoped would die with him roil underneath the surface of what he knows is an infamously calm exterior. Inside, he is anything but.

  


  
_What I did not teach you about Occlumency is that the memories can be altered. This is not a skill known by most wizards, and it is not a skill that is morally sound; but I employed it with you in the Shrieking Shack because I thought I was going to die._

_  
_

  
"That's not a bloody excuse."

  


  
_No, but it is an explanation. It was not your mother whose affections I sought, Mr. Potter, but that of your father. Lily was protective of me because she suspected me for what I am. Albus was also gay, and he understood my need for discretion._

_  
_

  
"It's nothing to be ashamed of." Potter's voice barely conceals rage under the surface. Severus treads lightly.

  


  
_My feelings developed from the desire to protect to just desire; and then, finally, a far more disturbing predecessor to as close to love as I had ever gotten. I don't consider your father to have been anything but my first crush, but" his writing is so quick Potter has trouble reading the words before they disappear "you surprised me. Seeing you, a young boy, shoulder the burden I could have lifted from you if only I had won the battle of my own selfish will. I could have stopped him that night, Potter. I failed you. I failed Lily; and I failed myself. I left because I could not face that failure, nor could I face you._

_  
_

  
_And now you are my protector once again, in ways you could not possibly know. I am sorry for the danger in which you were placed. I am sorry for the choices you had to make, and I am sorry for abandoning you._

_  
_

  
Harry watches the table until the last letter disappears, and even then he cannot bring himself to look Severus in the eye. Tentatively, Severus completes his confession.

  


  
_The reason for this curse is the key to lifting it. My silence will be what kills me if I do not. No more occlusion of the truth; no more hiding. I am gay, Mr. Potter, and I kept it from you because I thought you would not listen to me even half as much as you did if I had told you._

_  
_

  
"That is ridiculous. How could I hold that against you? And do you have any idea how I struggled? How I still struggle? This isn't about just you or just me; this isn't about a second coming of Voldemort. It's about trust. And right now, I feel that trust waning."

  


  
Severus feels the weight of those old secrets leaving his body but retaining their imprint on his soul. It had perhaps been too soon to tell Potter the truth, but it seemed right in the face of whatever had to happen next. Another flash of fondness - this is what he recognizes now, the object of that fondness sitting before him, reaching for another cigarette - scrolls across his consciousness.

  


  
_I must got back to Hogwarts. Albus' portrait will be of some help, I believe._

_  
_

  
"I just need you to be safe." Potter's voice has lost its shrill component; all pretense is gone. His concern is not only professional, and it is a dangerous place to be - but Severus finds himself welcoming the change. Perhaps it will make whatever path is laid out before them now easier; to lose the sense of injustice in his having left the wizarding world, to move beyond the trappings of their lives before will make finding a counter-curse and those responsible for his near demise could be a balm for them both. Potter is wary, and for that Severus cannot blame him; but he is open, now standing before Severus and willing to move forward. Willing to forgive.

  


  
_I will not omit the truth in its fullness ever again. That is a promise._

_  
_

  
Potter seems to consider this for some time before answering. "Go to Hogwarts. See what Dumbledore's portrait has to say; Hermione and I will continue working to discover who did this. Don't be gone long - it isn't safe."

  


  
_I will return with haste._

_  
_

  
Potter lingers for a brief moment, his eyes affixed to the ground. Sensing that there was nothing more to say, Severus stands and leaves the son of James to his thoughts.

  



	7. Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus confronts Albus Dumbledore's portrait. 
> 
> Complications arise at Snape's manor when he returns.

  
The morning before he departs for Hogwarts, Severus finds himself having returned to the veranda. While he did not set out to watch the sun rise, it was an enjoyable interlude during which he found himself pondering the events of the previous day. He nurses a cup of hot coffee - a muggle beverage for which he had developed a decided fondness - and watches the hazy amber glow of another autumn day settle in, pouring over the gently rolling hills and through the alders like liquid gold.

  


  
Admittedly, his consultation of Albus' portrait was not related to the business at hand; at least, not directly. He was certain that the former headmaster would have some knowledge of the ancient serpentine rites Granger had discovered, but his primary reason for going back to Hogwarts was hopelessly intimate.

  


  
He finds himself suddenly annoyed with Harry Potter. His infuriating Gryffindor sensibilities are on full display in their current predicament, although time and pain have clearly stolen the innocence that had made that unshakable bravery grating. This new version of Potter - older, filled out, nicotine-addled auror with a penchant for thoughtless recklessness - seemed both foreign and completely recognizable to him at once. Although, rather than endangering those around him, Potter seemed hellbent on ensuring that he was the only one to absorb the consequences. If what had transpired in the Cotswolds was any indication, Potter had something of a death wish.

  


  
And then there was the highly inadvisable moment during which Severus found himself half-confessing that he cared for Potter. Leaving the nature of that care purposefully vague, he hoped that the auror would simply drop it - and he had, but only because their first priority was restoring his ability to speak and find whoever was responsible for turning his life upside down.

  


  
His life. What had that been, exactly? He had certainly felt at the conclusion of the Final Battle that leaving had been the most appropriate course of action, but after his meeting with McGonagall, his linear way of considering his agency apart from magic had stopped. Had he merely conditioned himself not to want the life he'd had prior to Voldemort's defeat? Had he ever wanted any of it?

  


  
Such questions were unanswerable now, but speaking with Dumbledore would offer some kind of clarity. He relishes the smell of the coffee - strong, black as his hair - before taking a sip. The French doors open, although he does not move to receive whomever has joined him.

  


  
"I would have thought you'd be gone by now." It's Potter, his voice heavy laden with sleep. In consulting his wristwatch, Severus notes the time is 6:30am.

  


  
It is a familiar dance, now. He removes his wand and begins to write on the stone adjacent to where Potter stands in sock feet, basketball shorts, and an oversize hooded sweatshirt. His hair is recognizably akimbo; Severus feels himself begin to keen. As with the other questions he asked himself prior, he had no answer for where that came from.

  


  
_I will leave shortly. I have developed an unfortunate addiction to coffee._

__  


  
"Same. I find it helps me focus."

  


  
_You seem to be dependent on chemicals in general._ Severus gestures to the pack of cigarettes dangling from Potter's hand. _Why would you smoke, knowing its dangers?_

__  


  
"Why did you become a Death Eater?" When Severus feels his face turn red, Potter holds up his hands, sensing the other man's agitation. "It's a serious question. Why would you have done something you knew was dangerous, wrong even?"

  


  
_Childish vengeance._

__  


  
"Well, there you go. Being Harry Potter and all that comes with it is still difficult. I imagine that will become harder now that the rumors of Death Eaters still active is more than a rumor; so I guess I became what you would call recalcitrant. I didn't care what happened to me. Life became mundane after the Final Battle. I felt purposeless."

  


  
_Only you would be so shortsighted. The work against the dark forces that threaten us are never done. Dumbledore didn't equip you for a life after the war._

__  


  
"No, he didn't. You can thank him for that on my behalf when you speak with his portrait."

  


  
_I do not seek his counsel for your sake. You are as selfish as ever._

__  


  
Potter recoils, but steadies himself. "You know, some of us didn't have the opportunity to run away and remake ourselves. I don't blame you for it and I am ready to move forward as you said yesterday, but I'm not the only selfish one, here."

  


  
Severus can't offer a rebuttal; his actions may have been selfish; like Potter, he had his reasons. They all suddenly seemed like pithy excuses; distractions from what the real issues were. As Potter stands before him, he is hard-pressed to find a reason not to address those real issues directly.

  


  
_If I am critical now, it is out of a pure concern for your well-being._

__  


  
"All of a sudden you're worried about me?"

  


  
_My concern for you has been a slowly-developing condition since before your first year at Hogwarts. Only recently has it grown to its current height._

__  


  
"And that height would be?"

  


  
_Greater than I will ever admit._

__  


  
Harry swallows, lighting a cigarette despite Severus' menacing stare. "Will you tell me when we fix this?"

  


  
Severus is utterly disarmed; the question seemed to come out of nowhere. _I will tell you verbally when the time comes, if it ever does, and not a single moment prematurely._

  


  
Thankfully, Potter seems amenable to this and changes the subject. "I have to go to Robards today to deliver a report. We need to move faster; I think our progress hasn't been as fast as he's hoping."

  


  
_Dolohov is likely a more accomplished Death Eater than I, if only because his devotion to Voldemort's mission was total. It will be difficult to track him down, though not impossible. I distinctly felt as though Draco had not been completely honest when he was here._   


  
Potter finishes his cigarette, holding the fag between his thumb and index finger over the stone railing, flicking the still-lit filter into the garden below. Severus sighs. "How so?"

  


  
_His mother is not one to back down from a fight. Where Lucius is now only an effete symbol, she remains a powerful figurehead. He didn't mention her, and I believe that was a deliberate decision. He's protecting something. Perhaps even hiding something._

__  


  
"I won't go to him again directly. If Narcissa is involved somehow, it's best to seek her out. Dolohov is a puppet; he isn't the ring leader for any of this. He wouldn't have tried so hard to kill us in the Cotswolds if he weren't serving someone more powerful than he."

  


  
_Perceptive. But while Narcissa is an accomplished and talented witch, she is not enough of a force to enthrall a man like Dolohov._

__  


  
"Stranger things have happened. I pulled her Ministry file two days ago. When she lied to Voldemort about my death, she did so to betray and usurp him. There are recovered communications between she and Voldemort from that time, but they are heavily coded; something was going on, but the trail goes cold at that point."

  


  
_What do you propose?_

__  


  
"Go to Hogwarts. Talk to Dumbledore, and I - I think I need to draw Dolohov out."

  


  
_That is the worst idea you have ever had. He is an impossibly skilled duelist - he'll kill you without hesitation._

__  


  
"I need to know who he's working for, and we've reached a dead end. Just go; I'll handle the rest."

  


  
It occurs to Severus that their discussion is nearly companionable. He finds it feels a bit indulgent now to go to Hogwarts, as what he needs most from Albus is closure - but now, as Potter commits himself to an idea that could be as effective as it is foolhardy, he withdraws his criticism when he realizes why he reprimanded Potter.

  


  
"I'm an auror, Professor. Not your student. Not a little boy who needs to learn his place."

  


  
_I admittedly forget that. You seem to have read my mind._

__  


  
"Don't mention it" he mumbles, lighting another cigarette. "I've sent a few dark wizards to Azkaban, you know. I'm the top of the department."

  


  
_You do not need to convince me of your skill._

__  


  
Severus drains his coffee cup and moves to go inside. _I must leave, and you have a wildly irresponsible plan to organize. I will be back soon._ He isn't sure why he adds that last bit; out of habit, perhaps, as Potter prefers him not to stay gone too long for reasons of safety. Potter seems unfazed; again, Severus is thankful for the inability to detect inflection in his written communication.

  


  
"Good. I'll need Hermione for this as well."

  


  
_Whatever you think is necessary.  
_

  
Potter stays out on the veranda. His back against the rising sun was the last thing he saw before shooting through the Floo to Hogwarts.

  


  


* * *

****

  


  
Minerva is thankful that this visit from Severus takes place at a scheduled time, in a place that is not her private quarters. Her former colleague looms above her, refusing to sit when she had offered him the same measure of hospitality she would anyone else. Perhaps he was uncomfortable given their last conversation; Severus Snape is not a man whose proclivities include discussing his feelings, and certainly does not include apologizing; nevertheless, he seems quite at home in the headmistress's office even if he shifts his weight rather transparently as he stands before her. She offers a weak smile - drawing attention to the man's anxiety will only increase it. She had forgotten how gentle she had to be when it came to Severus.

  


  
"I don't need to tell you this, but Albus' portrait is far more perceptive in the mannerisms of its likeness than any other in residence."

  


  
_I am not surprised in the least. He wanted to be meddlesome even after having been released from his mortal coil._

__  


  
"How rude, Severus, indeed." The portrait piped up from behind its velvet curtain - Minerva had covered it due to Albus' habit of inserting himself into conversations and eavesdropping with reckless abandon. Minerva almost laughed out loud at Severus' reaction, taking a step backward, both eyebrows raised, his mouth agape. Minerva gets up to remove the curtain to reveal Dumbledore, looking over his trademark half-moon spectacles, the twinkle in his eye just as obvious as it had been in life. Both of his hands were on his midnight-blue clad hips - it would have been funny but for the realization that Albus could not have heard Severus' reply.

  


  
_How -_

__  


  
Dumbledore waves him away as if he were but a house fly. "How, indeed? You forget that this portrait is a magical representation of who I was in life. Like all portraits, it contains the essence of who I was - but in this particular case, it contains my whole being. You are correct in that I could not leave this plane entirely. I knew that it couldn't have been over."

  


  
Severus looks to Minerva for help that does not come. "He has been hanging in this office interrupting me for two years, Severus. Surely you can abide his intrusiveness for a fraction of that time."

  


  
The potions master recovers himself quickly. _I am not a child._

  


  
"Minerva? I require a moment alone with our prodigal son, if you please." Wordlessly, she leaves the room and closes the door behind her. Severus can barely contain his rage.

  


  
_How dare you._

  


  
"It is not my intention to anger you, Severus. I have overheard most of what has transpired; I am sorry that you were ripped away from the life you had built to face this evil once again."

  


  
_You of all people should understand that evil never truly dies. Voldemort was vanquished, but that means nothing in the grand scheme of things, and you should have told Potter as much._

__  


  
"Harry is a remarkably perceptive individual. I knew that he would learn this on his own; but criticizing my tutelage of Harry is not why you are here, is it old friend?"

  


  
_No, it is not._ Severus curses himself for laying his cards, such as they are, out on the table so soon in their conversation. Dumbledore's blue eyes, painted and completely realistic, barely contain the recognition of this fact.

  


  
"You are being hunted by the remaining Death Eaters, yes? And you have lost the use of your voice."

  


  
Severus' hand idly grazes over the scars on his neck. _Nagini bit me toward the end of the Final Battle. I should have died. Potter barely made it out of the Shrieking Shack, and Minerva revived me so that I could escape. I have lost my voice due to an ancient curse; finding its counter curse is of the utmost importance. I cannot protect myself from whomever my assailants are until that is accomplished._

__  


  
Albus seems lost in thought, having retreated to sit in the wingback chair painted into the portrait. When at rest, which is obviously rare, he is meant to be seated in the scholarly lounger. It does nothing to diminish the commanding presence he retains even in death. "Do you have any idea who your attackers are?"

  


  
_Potter identified Antonin Dolohov, but the working assumption is that he is not acting alone; he is someone's subordinate, although we do not know the identity of that person. We have a lead; nothing more._

__  


  
Dumbledore shrugs. "The loss of your voice - just rewards for keeping my secrets for so long. For keeping so many, many things secret. Hidden. The Dark Lord wouldn't have concerned himself with a traitor, so he sent Nagini in his stead. Quite like checking off an item from a to-do list."

  


  
_I admittedly had not considered that option. The reigning belief is that he was simply too tied up with Potter to be bothered with me._

__  


  
"In fact he was not. Had your duplicity been a mortal offense, he would have come to you himself and killed you. You know this to be true. So then, that leaves one final reason for the curse: he knew that you had kept secrets of a more sensitive nature, in addition to aiding Harry. It was this that he clung to; the sense of humanity. He didn't understand it, and like all tyrants, he sought to destroy that which he did not understand."

  


  
_Voldemort was not so poetic._

__  


  
"No, but Tom Riddle was. A loner, as you were. Except, his isolation was a result of hatred. You never harbored such loathsome ideals, and Voldemort was intrigued by you. This is why he only maimed you."

  


  
_Be that as it may, I need to lift the curse._

__  


  
"The answer lies in the explanation I just gave you, Severus. I told you in confidence that we shared an experience in life. Men of our persuasion cannot be afraid to stand up for what is right, and to express what we desire. Your curse is that you are no longer able to do so aloud; an affliction I should not have enforced on you, as Minerva has pointed out several times. I betrayed you, Severus. I did a grave injustice to Harry as well; for those things, I will be remorseful for quite some time."

  


  
Severus had come here for an apology; that much was clear to him now. He had anticipated, or so he had convinced himself to believe, that their meeting would revolve around the nature of the curse. This was what he came here for. Still, the apology was late - but it was genuine, and he found himself sated. It was up to Potter to do the real work - in this exact moment, he understood that a balance of power had been shifted.

  


  
_Venenum aspidum silentium. What do you know of that curse?_

__  


  
"I know nothing of the curse itself, but the collective of magical knowledge from which it hails is known to me. Parselmouths have always been Slytherin - but Salazar Slytherin descended from dark wizards who ruled themselves based upon more primal, carnal laws. These laws were put in place to govern, but also to further their bloodlines in the event that they could not do so through natural means."

  


  
_Yes; Miss Granger recovered a number of volumes from the library here regarding those practices. Why would those volumes be kept at Hogwarts?_

__  


  
"My tenure brought a different approach to transparency; I put them there myself. Minerva does not know about those tomes, although Miss Granger seems to have eliminated that possibility. Ever the studious Gryffindor, isn't she?"

  


  
_Quite._

  


  
"You said that you wanted to return to a discussion about Harry."

  


  
_To your negligence, yes. He smokes tobacco. He is ruthlessly efficient in everything he does; he isn't as prone to expressing his sadness; rather, he does so in anger._

__  


  
"And you do not think that perhaps he is mirroring the same coping mechanisms he saw in someone else he admired?"

  


  
Snape recoils, but the question is a fair one. _If he is mimicking my detachment during my time as a professor here, he is doing so subconsciously._

  


  
"We become that which we learn by example. If you are to regain your voice, help Harry to find his again. Has he shown any other signs of self-neglect?"

  


  
_His flat is disgusting. He no longer speaks to Mr. Weasley, and he reunited with Ms. Granger after I returned. It would seem that he was closing himself off from the people around him._

__  


  
Dumbledore clasps his hands behind his back, tilting his chin until he is looking at Severus through his spectacles. "He separated himself from those he loved out of grief, old friend. This is not a machination of my admitted deceitfulness when it came to Harry's purpose. What he did was not at all unlike your retreat from our world."

  


  
_I do not regret my decision._

__  


  
"So why return, Severus? You are resourceful, even though your magical abilities are limited at present. You could have found a way to survive despite Dolohov's pursuance. Why come back to a world you wanted to escape?"

  


  
Severus feels the walls of the office begin to push forward. He recalls his brief conversation with Potter on the veranda before he left; the deer-in-the-headlights look about him, disheveled and frightened. At the time, he had thought Potter was scared of the coming conflict - it was a matter of time before Dolohov or whomever he was working for made a second attempt at contact, and the Boy Who Lived looked exactly as he had back when Voldemort lived. It was not fear for himself that Potter had been struggling against - it was his fear for Severus.

  


  
"Ah, so now you see. Harry is concerned for your well-being."

  


  
_Potter concerns himself with the well-being of all those around him. It is perhaps the most irritating aspect of his Gryffindor nature._

__  


  
Dumbledore essays a raised eyebrow over his spectacles. "No, Severus. This is something all together different, and I believe you know that."

  


  
The old codger was as perceptive as ever, even painted in oil. _I cannot._

  


  
"Why?"

  


  
_I would not be able to reconcile losing him again._

__  


  
"You never lost him in the first place. You walked away to avoid complication when in fact you succeeded in prolonging it. Take the opportunity now to not only vanquish Voldemort's legacy for good, but to repair what has been broken."

  


  
Albus had known Severus since the latter was a child. Watching him grow up was not unlike guiding Potter through his own childhood, although the stakes in that case were certainly higher. The walls closed in a bit more.

  


  
_I will take what you have said under advisement._

__  


  
"Good. Well then, I am quite famished. It has been a delight speaking with you, Severus." The portrait is unceremoniously inactive. There are no parting words; no summary of their discussion. Severus is left wanting, standing alone in the office and balling his hands into fists.

  


  
When Minerva opens the door again, she raps on it softly. "Finished?"

  


  
_Yes_ Severus scrawls across the door. _I have stayed longer than intended._

  


  
McGonagall sits down behind her desk again, covering the portrait of Dumbledore with the velvet drapery once more. "I hope you find whoever did this to you, and I hope that they are punished using equal measures."

  


  
_It is not with vengeance in my heart that I am came here._ Snape's throat, suddenly raw and painful, works against a lump in his throat. His vision, to his shock and horror, begins to blur.

  


  
Minerva takes one of Severus' hands, holding it between her two considerably smaller ones. Her voice is a dulcet, calming alto; Severus immediately sees how she was successful in rebuilding Hogwarts, in delivering the news of countless deaths to bereaved parents, counseling traumatized students. He abides the contact, the touch of warm skin against his an unspeakably comforting, intimate gesture.

  


  
"I know. And I have had my suspicions about Harry for quite some time. He is not James, Severus. He is the last person from whom you ought to be hiding." Severus rumbled a sigh, but it came out a sob. McGonagall thumbs his palm in a circle, which does in fact work to soothe the potions master.

  


  
_I am unskilled in these matters, to say nothing of the inconvenience in addressing them at a time like this._

__  


  
"You will know what to say when the time is right. Until then, go. Find who did this, and bring the sky down around their ears."

  


  
Severus cannot chance to write anything else. Every word exhausted, every intention and feeling laid bare, it is all he can do to Floo out of the office. When he does, McGonagall's eyes are full to the brim of something a lot like forgiveness.

  
  


* * *

****

  


  
The manor is dark when he arrives seconds later, though it is just after 5pm. Walking through each room, he performs a cursory check for both intruders and Potter, although he is unsure what he would say to the young man if he found him.

  


  
He methodically checks each room, saving the kitchen for last. He plans to spend the remains of the day on the veranda watching the sun set, left to his own thoughts. Walking through the darkened dining room, he ghosts his fingers along the books Granger had left strewn over the surface of the table. It was difficult for him to imagine that he was here again, fighting the same darkness that had nearly consumed him before. Dumbledore believed that evil could be defeated, when in actuality it was a perpetual cycle of light and dark; a cycle in which the light depends on the darkness, and vice versa. In Potter's mind, the objective was always clear - weed out evil, restore order, do what is right. Things were not so cut and dry; there was a vast sea of gray between right and wrong, good and evil. Severus had towed that line for his entire life, until he decided to take control of his own life - but that motivation had been a ruse. He would agree with Albus on that much.

  


  
Lost in reverie, he is able to catch some movement out of his peripheral vision. His senses heightened, he moves forward slowly and deliberately, his pulse pounding in his ears.

  


  
He does not have to quest in the dark for long before he sees it: a man, silent and menacing, his irises and pupils black as the void; his wand, twisted and pressed to his captive as to have broken skin, produces tendrils of electrical current.

  


  
"One more step and I will kill him without a second thought."

  


  
Snape's diaphragm drops. His lungs fill with what feels like pitch. Before he can react, before he does anything else, he opens his mouth out of pure instinct.

  


  
"Potter". And the growling snarl of the name filled the room, which turned upside down and disappeared into blinding white light for a fraction of a second before Severus was excused from consciousness entirely.

  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Italicized dialogue is done in sign, and talics without quotations represent Snape writing, which is his preferred and most used form of communication.  
> 2\. Snape is gentler in this, but he's far from a saint.  
> 3\. The reality is that, had Snape lived, he probably would have been hunted for the rest of his life. Death was the kindest thing Voldemort could have possibly done for him; but Voldemort wasn't kind, and so in this AU, Snape lives to bear the consequences of his actions.


End file.
